


Embrace Your Shadow

by DearestShay



Category: Fifty Shades of Grey - All Media Types
Genre: Action & Romance, Aftercare, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst and Fluff and Smut, BDSM, Beating, Bondage, Christian&Ana, Dominance, Eventual Romance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Inspired by Fifty Shades of Grey, Lemon, Mystery, NaNoWriMo, Out of Character, Platonic BDSM, Romance, Sexual Tension, Shameless Smut, Slow Romance, Smut, Spanking, Submission, Suspense, Whipping
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2021-01-17
Packaged: 2021-03-07 22:06:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 46,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26904835
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DearestShay/pseuds/DearestShay
Summary: Agent Anastasia Steele, has a major investment in her current assignment: to find out what happened to her mother 10 years ago. Willing to risk her body, her freedom, and any slim chance of maintaining an ounce of purity, Ana will uncover what darkness lurks under the sands from behind the heel of a chaotic and cruel billionaire. OOC. Daily updates. Riddled with smut.
Relationships: Christian Grey/Anastasia Steele
Comments: 4
Kudos: 17





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This story is ongoing, and frequently updated. It is posted elsewhere, but I will be posting 2 chapters into 1 for AO3, up to a point, because the chapters start short. Thank you so much for your eyes, and all feedback is lovingly appreciated. Enjoy~

_Perhaps I was a dancer in my past life._

Probably not, but I can carry on as if that's true.

My feet glide effortlessly, my arms and torso move perfectly in sync with the cleaning instrument as my partner. The Inkspots, " _I Don't Want to Set the World On Fire,"_ bathes the house in its soulful croons, making the chore of mopping the floors much less chore-like. As I finish out the chorus, I fling the wooden handle of the mop into the corner of the walls where it leans obediently, and I take up singing the remainder of the song, scrubbing down the countertops, when a sharp knock sounds from the front door. I voice command the stereo, ceasing the music, and allow myself one blissful sigh.

I wash my hands at the tap, dry them into a dishtowel and get a good start before sliding to the living room in my socks, taking a moment to straighten and dust off my shirt before opening the door.

There on my doorstep kneels a shapely, delectable little brunette, shivering and practically naked in not much more than cellophane and curiously thin black material that covers her mouth and more intimate parts.

Her hair, a shiny mahogany shade, is long and falls down her back and chest midway, contrasting beautifully with her pale, rosy skin. Her breasts, pert and ample, heave with her shallow breaths as she stares up at me with startlingly round, cerulean blue eyes. On her neck is a thick black collar with a note draping down to her chest. I take the card between my fingers, read the elegant text written there.

" _Hello, Master."_

I smile down at the small woman that I will be taking in, that I now own. For a moment, her head tilts, and her wide, almost shocked eyes narrow, and somehow seem to drain of any hint of whatever she'd thought a mere second ago. She very quickly went from shy and shaking to cool and expressionless. My own head tilts as I try to grasp exactly what I've just seen. I've known her all of 15 seconds and already I am helplessly intrigued.

I tip her chin up with a single knuckle.

"Welcome home, little one."

* * *

_I don't know what I've gotten myself into,_ but it is far too late to tuck tail now, as if I would dream it.

A shiver runs up my spine, despite my conviction. The beautiful stranger, my _master_ , hooks his long finger around my collar and gives it a firm pull, silently commanding me to stand. His height is only fractionally less intimidating than it had been when I kneeled. Not massive, but he is a large man. There is a barely contained power concealed in his stance. In his striking gray stare.

Standing nearly naked in broad daylight, I almost feel claustrophobic with his eyes on me, as if they pierce straight through and I have nothing to hide. He is devilishly attractive. It bolsters his confident demeanor. Simply standing before him feels as if the air has shifted to make way for him. Wordlessly, he steps aside and motions towards the door.

As the door closes behind us I am instantly swaddled in the atmosphere of this man's home. The wide arches leading from room to room leave nothing to the imagination. Everything seen with one look. The walls are a gentle ivory, the floors a black wood glossed with lacquer. Sheer white curtains billow from the enormous windows. The furniture consists of rich creams, lustrous blacks. Everything is so contemporarily decorated. This stranger has fine tastes.

Completely at odds with the dank, squalid underbelly I imagined he inhabited. _He_ is completely at odds with the snake-eyed, greasy monster that was described to me. This man is quite close to immaculate, smooth by appearance alone. The cadence of his voice a deep, rumbling purr that situates in my belly. Hair a mess of brown , yet manicured and healthy.

 _What a pretty monster._ Facades are always convincing until they are torn down. Picked apart. Exposed. How pretty will he be when he no longer has anything to hide behind?

When I turn to reassess the man, I see that he is a step ahead, flagrantly raking me over. His eyes are reminiscent of a pearl being washed with rain. It doesn't seem to make sense but the kaleidoscope of grays, mute greens and silvers seem to churn about each other. There is a change from the neutral expression he'd had just moments ago: the very slight quirk to his brow.

It takes a moment for me to catch myself. I realize my mistake a little too late. My chin lowers to my chest as he releases a rumbly chuckle.

"I can see already that I'll have my hands full with you," he hums. "Good. I was getting bored."


	2. Chapter 2

"What is your name, girl?"

"Anastasia Steele, sir."

"How old are you, Anastasia?"

"22, sir."

Quite young, I note. I had only one other submissive within this one's age range, and she hadn't been here long enough for the sun to set. Wishful thinking, but something tells me this one will be different.

Just beside where her chin is tucked to her chest I grasp her collar with two fingers and tow her to the front room. "What are your hard limits, Anastasia?" I ask, kicking her legs out from beneath her so she falls to the sofa.

When she has recovered her breath she answers in whispery tones, "Fire play, anal and vaginal fisting, clamps, and suffocation, sir." Nothing terribly debilitating.

"You've signed all of your wavers and agreements prior to being sent here?"

"Yes, sir." Of course, I know all of the information that she's told me thus far—the paperwork the submissives go through to even be glanced at is extensive and thorough; but there is no harm in reaffirming the guidelines, giving the encouragement that respect comes over and above all, sub-to-dom and vice-versa.

There's something about this girl that enthuses me in a way I've not experienced in…well, in a long time, in way of recent memory. I want to unwrap her bare, to strip her to the most basic fibers in the next coming weeks that I will be sated for years to come. If she's brave and chooses not to run… Mm. I shouldn't even give myself the hope. It's much too soon to see what Miss Steele is made of.

Maybe a soft approach could win her. Provide an expectation nice and early, but one that results in her offering me her entirely… meaning I have all the time in the world with her. The thought is enough to quell the boorish need within me to toss her over the sofa arm and fuck her raw.

Instead, I'll give her a gentle introduction. I am more than happy just to get to know her. My way. She is safe, if only for now.

So to speak.

* * *

"Sit up on your knees in the couch and part your legs, Anastasia. Wide."

She does as I command without a hint of hesitation, her task only slightly hindered by the cellophane that wraps her breasts and lower half. Moreover, she even appears to be a bit stone-faced, her shining blue eyes flickering to mine but a moment before she tucks her chin in subservience, only the red tint of her cheeks indicating her modesty.

I lift her head with my knuckles as I tell her, "Do not look away from me. Unless it absolutely cannot be helped, you are always to look at me. You understand?"

"Yes, sir," she replies, and the vision of her uttering those same words, with her hair thrown about my bed and her face flushed as she bends across my bedframe enters my mind. _In due time._

I retrieve the gold-handled scissors from its place on the bookshelf, slicing through Miss Steele's remaining concealment, but I leave her wrists bound together. As the plastic and black scraps fall away from her I am riveted to her petite form, her ample curves. I've been at half-mast since the moment I'd laid eyes on her at the front door. My dick strains impatiently against the in-seam of my trousers seeing her now, deliciously and fully exposed, spread for my perusal.

She, Anastasia, is made infinitely more attractive to me in that she isn't a willowed thing; her hips and thighs have a tantalizing thickness to them that suits her almost too well.

I lower to my knees before her, taking in every hill, valley and freckle. Her skin is flawed flawlessly, light enough that it could pass for translucent under sunlight, dark enough that her plump breasts contrast perfectly with their soft pink nipples. Her waist nips in and flares out with a dangerous allure, accentuating the fullness of her thighs. I guide my hand over every line of her, noticing but not bringing attention to the shiver that trembles through her, at the heat and electricity under my palm.

Without any preamble I slide my fingers through the downy curls masking her sex. Over the smooth flesh that covers her opening, and her hitched breath is all the motivation I need to give into her wiles. I don't care to curb my wants now, suddenly. It would only be too satisfying to succumb to the perverse desires coming at me as quickly as they were.

But resist I will.

_Patiently teaching myself patience._

I bring myself closer to the creature before me, banding my arm around her little waist as I continue the gentle massage of her pussy, reveling in the noises she purrs. I slip my fingers down her back. Plant open-mouthed kisses across her abdomen, on the curves of her breasts. Hot, thick arousal coats the tips of my fingers, my left hand. I look up into those resplendently blue hooded eyes and slide the fingers behind her into the greedy furnace of her pussy as I rub tight circles into the hard bump of her clit.

Small and shaky breaths morph to wanton, salacious moans as her hips churn down on me. Her unwavering obedience in maintaining her gaze with me grants an unsung satisfaction, but I am further thrilled when she throws her head back, guaranteeing herself an early introduction to a punishment, whenever I would decide to drop the mask.

Credit where it is due, she is trying. Exceedingly determined, her head snaps forward only seconds later, eyes opening and searching wildly for a moment before focusing on me.

A tremor rolls over her dewed skin a half-second after the gluttonous walls of her dripping sex quake around me. She struggles in her wrist restraints. Her shoulders are pitched back sharply, unconsciously offering her lovely tits to me, and I take them, giving hard, hungry sucks to one until I abandon it with a pop to take up the other. She's so close I have to wonder how she hasn't crossed that precipice any earlier. The quivering of her inner muscles, the constant trembles of her skin, it makes no sense that she's still fighting it…

I peer up at her now and _truly_ see the shaking visage that is Anastasia, my fresh submissive. I'd never seen it before, and it was truly the sight: the vehement defiance in a cerulean gaze.

_Well, well._


	3. Chapter 3

_Damn him_ , I cannot deny what he demands.

My nails claw mulishly into my wrists. Digging and digging, a vain attempt to free myself. My heart thumps loud and angrily in my throat, threatening to burst from my chest, so loud it drowns out my heaving breaths. I am exhausted, and must exhaust myself further as I struggle not to come.

I am determined, but cannot estimate how much longer I can hold out. I've piqued the master's curiosity though. I can see it in the slight narrowing of his eyes, feel it as his tongue laps harder at my breast.

I concede, I am not prepared for this. I did not anticipate being forced to climax only seconds after infiltration. I had taken care of myself prior to shipping from home, in preparation, knowing the luxury would be stripped once I arrived here. I had not accounted for the 3 week journey. I might as well have not masturbated and just tried my luck when I got here.

I hate him at this moment. Even more than I had before I met him. I've not been in his home ten minutes and I'm already bound, naked and being humiliated into an orgasm. He's not even told me his fucking name. Despite that, I knew who he was the moment he opened the door.

But I cannot ignore my body. I cannot disregard the controlled pumps of his long fingers into my sex. The rapid, tight circles he etches into my clitoris. He is irrefutably skilled at this, studying and adapting to my body's response to his ministrations, then torturing me with teases and strokes that cause me to seize up, mists me into a sweat.

I feel his teeth scour the sensitive pad of my nipple before a crude noise rings out in the room as he releases my breast from his mouth, sings my name, "Anastasia." I am trying—failing—to taper my reactions to him, but the escalation of his touch proves the task to be impossible. I crack my eyes to peer down and there is a crooked smile on his face. It catches me off guard. I sigh long and sorrowfully as another shock rolls through me. His expression rarely shifts from dispassionate but there is a hint of elation in him. My ire grows, my resolve bends.

"Stop fighting me, Anastasia," he says, peppering kisses across my navel, the dip of my pubic bone. His tongue flicks leisurely across my clit for but a moment but I clench so tightly around his fingers I almost fail my pursuit. As if he can read my mind he continues with, "You'll run yourself into the ground before I stop, mouse."

I am unsure if I can keep up any longer. The stubborn arch of my back is subsiding, and I cry out impishly as I sink lower unto his driving fingers. He's commanded not to look away from him but I cannot resist—can only refuse to look into his eyes when he brings me over the edge. Turn my head into my shoulder and pierce my teeth through my lip. Stiffen to the point that I don't breathe. My orgasm barrels through me so hard my world explodes, paints a blinding white light behind my eyelids, simultaneously filling and emptying my belly with delicious tension.

My hearing funnels back in trickles. The heavy catching of my breath follows the rushing of my heart, the soft, wet slicking of his fingers as they ride me off of my high. He is staring at me as I turn back to him, continues to stare as my heart rate calms. A blank slate with slightly darkened eyes.

"That was a gift, mouse. Will you not give thanks?" He answers my silence with the crook of his head, contemplative. Never looking away from me. He mutters, "I see," as he stands to his full height, then wraps my hair around his hand. He ignores the gasp that tumbles from me as he pulls me up. The quaking of my legs as cum is forced from my sex and seeps down my inner thighs. I don't think I can convey anything less than unadulterated revulsion.

I wait for him to dole out a punishment. To strike me. To fuck me. Something. Instead he says softly, "You disobeyed me."

When I say nothing in response, his mouth creases with the hint of an unsettling grin. Unsettling in that I do not know what it means, what will follow it. Then suddenly he's moved, disentangling his hand from my hair, and is walking away from me, down the long corridor. I follow him with legs that do not seem to belong to me. He does not look at me as I fall into step behind him, and I wonder how much longer I'll allow this man to live.

* * *

My submissive is ever the intriguing creature.

Quiet, assured, cautious, biddable, challenging.

Intriguing.

I smirk as the muted slaps of her bare feet approach. She is a perplexing mix of insolence and obedience, as if in less than an hour of our time together she would be able to grasp which limits of mine she could push and when. As if knowing this information will bring her some mercy in our coming months. Her confidence is admirable. Foolish.

I lead her into the room I've set up for her, sparse of everything besides a decent bed, an armoire and a lazy boy. I almost don't want to allow the little minx a door anymore. As she steps into the room I take the liberty of undoing the restraints on her wrists, the black collar on her neck. I withhold a smile as her look of gratitude is instantly replaced by displeasure. The soft, foam like material that had bounded her replaced by my soft leather cuffs on either wrist. Loose enough that her movement was in no way hindered, while maintaining a medium for me to slip some chains on her. I return her gaze with a challenge of my own: _Don't like it? Say so. I dare you._

I have no actual intention in keeping her in them. Her reaction was all I was looking for, and it was indeed amusing.

That feeling of anticipation in my gut is a yawning, searching presence within me. Patience suppresses the desire to chain her from the ceiling. I am troubled by how charmed I am by this one, how the desire to punish her for potential misdoings outweigh the courtesy of getting to know her. It is a constant presence in my mind though, that I need to show even the smallest bit of restraint until she finds it within herself to want to stay.

But the need will not fade.

It grows, festers as she traipses leisurely about the considerable space, cataloguing everything around her, unabashed in her nudity. How her hips roll with her steps. The way her slender legs contour to her shapely ass.

"Mouse."

Her response is immediate, autonomous. She pauses where she is, turns towards me and presents her breasts as she straightens her back, her bound wrists in front of her, all in seemingly one fluid motion. A basic level of compliance is expected from all submissives that arrive here, but in almost every case, they lack a certain discipline. This one does not. The fact fuels the faceless hunger within me, hardens me to stone.

I palm one full tit in my hand as I step close to her, twisting her hair with the other hand and placing it over her shoulder. I watch her face closely as I play with her, riveted in the subtle droop of her eyelids, the slight pull of her lower lip between her teeth when I brush over the peak of her nipple, the sigh of breath as I give the nub a firm pinch.

I ask, "What is your tolerance to pain, Anastasia?" adding pressure to my fingers on her.

Her mouth betrays her steady answer of, "Very high, sir. "Her teeth sink deeper into that lip, accompanies a lovely flush across her cheeks. I bend to kiss the corner of her mouth as I release her, and the neutral expression she loves to wear is betrayed by the faint widening of her eyes from the action. Did she really think I wouldn't be kissing her while she was here?

I take a half step back to allow myself the view of all of her. So interesting. She wasn't even that shocked when I'd just fingered her. How presumptuous of me.

"These will be your personal quarters for the duration of your stay. If I'm not cooperating your time, come here as often as you wish; your privacy is your own, out of play. The fridge is stocked, there is basic cable, no internet, and hot water at your disposal. For now, you may eat what you wish, simply keep a journal with you so I can get a gist of what you like, what stays and what doesn't. There is a phone; it has a direct connection to the island representatives, should you need to speak with them for whatever reason.

"You will be in and out of bed no later than 2am and 10am at your own discretion, unless instructed otherwise. You are to eat no less than 2 meals a day, at your discretion, until instructed otherwise. You are to remain in this villa, unless I give you the go-ahead. If you find yourself to be unhappy at any point in the period of your stay, you are to voice your concerns with your dominant or directly to the island reps immediately, regardless of instruction. Your health is put above all. Are we clear on these four ground rules, Anastasia?"

"Yes, sir."

I relax once I've parroted the meat of the speech, undoing the top button of my long-sleeve and raking a hand through my hair as I give us a bit more distance. I can almost reclaim my good sense now. It's easier to handle the debased thoughts when actual work is involved. The first day is always the worst.

"You have the remainder of the day to yourself," I continue, more softly spoken than before. The effect on her is good, the tension in her shoulders dissipating. "I want you to remember that you are not my prisoner, mouse. You are free to leave if you so wish; you wouldn't have to breathe a word to me. I will be a…difficult master, but fair to you. Whenever we aren't in play, I want you to be yourself, comfortable. Yes, there will be days that blend casual and play together, but for the most part, you are your own woman until the time says otherwise.

"I will not lie to you—if you've not already, you will feel the urge to leave for home. As I said, I am fair, but I will push against the boundaries. You will be handled with respect and care, all with a heavy hand. You were given to me because of your pain limits. Know that I will test them at every turn. Sometimes you will be punished not because you have done wrong, but because it will please me. I will always reward you when it is deserving, but you will work hard for the favor.

"I will make mistakes. Many of them. I only ask of you tolerance, understanding. And of course, the complete subjugation of your body. If you find me worthy of the task, I promise to make this an experience you take home with you fondly." I place my lips against the reddened strip of pink on her wrists as I lift it to me, holding her gaze as my tongue reaches out to taste the soft skin. Just the small hitching of her breath is beyond arousing. "You may speak freely, Anastasia. Do you understand all of what I've said?"

"Yes, sir."

"Christian," I smile.

She tests the name on her lips, rolls the weight of it in her mouth. Pronounces it slowly. "Christian."

"You understand?"

"Yes, s—Yes. Christian."

My grin is uncontained. Her eyes are so round, almost innocent, and so deeply blue. I kiss her hand once more before releasing her of the cuffs, then releasing her, taking to the doorway, pausing to point to the room across from us. "My office is right there, should you be looking for me at any time. My room is opposite of the house to you, if I am not in the study. The door is always open. You may speak to me about anything. Anything you want to ask?"

She takes a moment to look around her, as if absorbing everything I've told her, the settings around her, and plucking any grey areas for questions. When she looks back to me her head shakes with a, "No, thank you." Very well.

"The remainder of the day is at your disposal," I repeat. "Some clothing will be arriving for you rather soon today; simply leave the front door open for the grunts to come and go with goods as they please. Feel free to draw a bath or whip yourself up something to eat, as well. The fridge is full. Central air is on. Get comfortable."

"Where will you be?" she asks, voice quiet but firm. She's curious, but confident that she will do just fine without me here to hold her hand. The thought tugs at the corner of my mouth.

"I've a few errands to run. I won't be gone for very long but thought you would like some privacy. You don't need me around while you settle in. I'll see you shortly."

"Thank you…Christian."

It's a bit early to be thanking me. I haven't administered her punishment for disobedience yet.

My smile is as wide as it is genuine as I leave her. The silhouette of her every curve burned into my vision as I call out to her.

"Welcome home, little one."


	4. Chapter 4

“Bullshit.”

“I would say the same if he hadn’t stood right before me.”

“It can’t be that simple. How can you be sure it’s him?”

“I think I know a missing billionaire when I see one, Kavanagh.”

She recognizes my tone, backtracks, marveling as she muses aloud, “Christian Grey is alive.”

“Aye. And what a place to find him.”

“I need information, Steele. What he’s doing there, who he answers to, how long he’s been there and what the people around him know, everything—”

“It’s too early for that,” I interject, starting slightly at the sound of the front door swinging open. “You’ll have info as I access it, _when_ I access it. It’s too soon to go sniffing around the place.” I cover the receiver with my palm as I give a slight smile to the men who’ve burst in, and it withers when neither pass me even a glance, hauling in whatever they’ve brought and just as quickly making themselves scarce. Still, I show a semblance of modesty, pulling the too large cotton tee a bit further down so the hem covers more of my thigh. “There are more eyes and ears than I anticipated.”

“Hearing that doesn’t surprise me anymore, now that we know who’s there. Is there anything you have on him yet?”

“Next to nothing, no. But I’m sure the opportunities will be plenty.” That skewed grin he shone at me as he forced me to orgasm makes an unwelcome appearance in my mind. I run my hand across my neck as I shake away the memory. “I can call whenever the mood strikes, but I wouldn’t dare unless the ‘master’ is away. And you’ve triple checked that these lines are secure?”

“Have some faith, Steele. We can manage without your omniscient eye around here.”

“That didn’t answer my question.”

She replies to my flat retort with a sigh, and I hear the distant clicking of keys as she logs into her terminal. “The signal on our line jumps from Moscow to Singapore to Texas and drops off around Mexico, where yours picks up.”

“Nowhere from there?”

“Not a trace.”

“Then we’re on the right track.”

I hear her shift in the chair she’s sitting in. “You know I don’t like this. Flying blind. It makes me antsy.”

“And I’m the one in need of faith.”

“I don’t doubt your ability to handle the situation, Steele,” she says. I hear the roll of her eyes in the remark. “But there is a great amount of diplomacy involved in this one.” I say nothing, and she continues with, “Don’t get caught up.”

“I’m going.”

“Ana—“

“I’ll keep you updated.”

I end the call. Diplomacy. I smile to myself as I replace the phone on its cradle, check for any signs that movers are still in the vicinity, return the lock to the front door as I make my way through my new home. Time to sightsee will be in the future; but there is an objective to take care of. The layout of the home is fairly simple, a very clear square. Where the center should be is cut out with the foliage of a growing in-house garden, exposed by the full-walled windows that surrounded it on all sides.

6 rooms total. Two bedrooms—the flesh of the square. There’s a large, empty room adjacent to the sitting room that doubled as a kitchen, Mister Grey’s study neighboring the bathroom. The door to the garden led from the bathroom; the front door to the sitting room. I noted a set of double doors that led out unto trailed sand from Christian’s rooms, and briefly wondered how far that trail went and where.

My back is to the garden when the lock clicks with Mister Grey’s return. I’ve not moved as his footsteps approach, and only turn when they stop a few feet away. There is such an energy emanating from him; dangerous, volatile. As if at any moment he could become anything, anyone that he wanted.

But he gazes at me calmly, serene even. The ocean swirls around us and I smell the salt in his hair, on his clothing. Truth be told, I don’t know who am I supposed to be here, at this moment. Am I the sex slave I signed up to be? Or am I just Ana now? Who was he looking at?

“Face the glass, little one.” Unknowingly, he answers my silent question.

I do as I am told, wordlessly turning around and staring out at the tree that reaches high into the sky. He is behind me now, gathering my hair into his hands, stroking it, placing it over my shoulder as he touches my lower back, encouraging me to brace myself. With the slow but sudden intrusion of one long finger slipping past my vulva, he whispers into my ear, “How are you feeling?”

Hesitance seizes me. Bereft of an answer I look through the curtain of my hair, up into his eyes, dark and hard and foreign. He slips inside of me, and my answer dances further away. Gentle stroking of my inner walls is joined by the soft caress of another finger across my clitoris.

I see his intent in the dip of his eyes, and then there is the almost stony press of his lips to mine. Neither of us takes our eyes off of the other, and unsure of myself I do not respond to his kiss. He draws back to regard me, but his hand on me does not relent, increases in tempo. One particular upstroke wrings a gasp from me, causes my back to arch for another. This time he does not duck his gaze. He watches me acquiesce to his touch. Drinks in my loathing. Relishes in it.

In an instant he’s gone. The contrast of being eclipsed by him to not is almost shocking. A chill runs down my spine. The feeling of being exposed is one I am not used to.

“Have you eaten, pet?” he asks. His stare is knowing, arrogant. I stare right back. As if I am unaware of the state he’s left me in. As if I don’t hate him with every ounce of my being.

“No, sir.”

“Christian,” he corrects, “and you’ll eat now then. What are you hungry for?” The question is almost a purr. Before I’ve answered he’s walking away, and it’s a blessing in disguise. My sneer could melt stone. He rifles through the fridge. I take the opportunity to recuperate.

He’s laid out cold cuts and bread when I join him. There are more combinations here than there should be.

“What’s your poison?”

“Turkey.” It comes out as a croak, and I cough lightly into my elbow as I take a seat at the island across from him. My back immediately straightens. I can feel the imprint of his fingers from when they were inside me. One look at my face and a small upturn of the mouth graces his.

“Did you have a look through your things?”

“No, sir, I—“

“Christian.”

“Christian,” I amend, the force of his eyes on me chilling. “I was having a look around when you’d come in.”

“And how do you like it?” He is all smiles again. “Not too shabby, I’d say.”

“Not shabby at all.” My gaze skims around the room quickly. It’s a very clean place, lived in. I’d read the logs of the missing Christian Grey at least 3 years prior, and at that point he had been missing for close to 5. I will need more information before I can assume Mr. Grey wanted to play a game of Runaway Billionaire. I wouldn’t be surprised if he’s been here all along. But this island, what it represents. Runaway is the least of his demeanors if I uncover what’s buried beneath these sands.

* * *

The first thing that strikes me with Miss Steele is that stare. Direct, unabashed eye contact. Until the realization that she’s doing it dawns on her. As it’s just done. And when she looks down her eyes narrow just a bit, as if she’s chastising herself. But she does not fidget, does not tense when I notice her mistakes. Pride. Unwavering confidence. I want her broken.

“Anastasia—“

“Ana,” she interjects, and her oh-so blue gaze reconnects with mine. Penetrating. Defiant. “Ana’s fine.”

“Ana,” I echo. I take a moment to withhold the looming grin. “You’ve decided to stay.”

It isn’t a question but she answers, “Yes,” nonetheless. Food forgotten, I lean on the counter, appraising the little brunette.

“Why is that?”

One sleek brow quirks up. “You were hoping you’d scared me off by now?” She takes up the mantle of prepping her own food.

“Quite the opposite actually.” This is the truth. My mind was abnormally plagued by whether the girl would go or stay when I’d left the villa. It was the longest two hours I’d suffered…in recent memory, that is. “If you’ll allow me a moment of transparency, it can be a complete hit or miss if my girls choose to run for the hills.”

This information didn’t seem to deter her one bit. Nonetheless, she asks, “What makes them leave?”

The isolation. The inarguable subjugation of their entire selves to a stranger. The routine of having no routine when it came to play and pain. I shrug, “Who knows. This island is not for everyone.”

Her eyes truly are a shock. So vibrant and clear, and in the same coin impossibly shrewd and indecipherable. I know she’s read between the lines with no need for elaboration. I look down to her nearly untouched sandwich and cannot hide my mild disappointment. I wish she would finish already; every second I am not exploring her feels wasted.

But I am curious about her, which is new to say the least. A master I have been for many years now, literally as far back as I can remember, and while many submissives have lived in this home, none have piqued me as this one. Where is she from? What’s possessed her to stop her entire life to essentially become a live-in fuck toy? Does she have a husband? Has she ever? Boyfriend? She’s absolutely divine, and all different types choose this lifestyle—tied down, with kids or without.

I can see her as an astute businesswoman, married. A total go-getter that commands a building the moment she steps foot in it—but by night, she lusts to relinquish all thought, all control, and be dominated in every sense of the word. Perhaps her husband can’t provide her that, and the lack of challenging her needs has forced her hand in seeking out someone who can.

Regardless that I have her entire history in print form, I somehow manage to create my own personal backstory for her.

I blink, refocusing on the sandwich that has barely had a dent made in it, and look up to Ana. Just watching me.

“I haven’t known you for very long, mouse, but you may be the slowest eater I have ever met.”

“Sorry,” she mutters, and although she begins to eat, they are indeed the bittiest of bites. I’m likely making her uncomfortable. She’d best get used to that. Showing mercy, I packed the fridge back up.

She will never need for a thing during her stay. Everything besides access to the outside world is at her very disposal. It was important for the submissives to maintain that everything that happened here, no matter how brutal or violent it is, is consensual, their own choice. The first week or two is always the hardest on them; they either missed their freedom too much or are so desperate to have none when they arrived that they wouldn’t move a muscle without instruction.

The less of that nonsense, the better. And the woman sitting at the counter doesn't seem to fit either of those categories.

My dossier on her was standard as it gets. 5 feet, 6 inches. 140 pounds. Brunette, blue eyes, Caucasian. Good education. No relatives. I had initially given a small eye roll when I read that. The ones with no family that came to me were always looking for something in me that I was simply incapable of giving. I didn’t have a family to speak of either, and unfortunately for them, I never forgot my role on this island—I wasn’t looking to be their friend, and I certainly wasn’t looking to replace a lack of family.

But I wasn’t totally devoid of compassion. I would hold them when they cried, and if they were so beyond saving, I would offer to take them straight to the helipad so they could return to whatever it was they missed so much.

This place was not meant for a weaker woman. Or man. All types showed up here, if they could afford it. _Handling_ it was a separate issue altogether, and whether they could or could not, the money was gone and spent. The least they could do was get the most out of it.

“Christian.” I regard her from over my shoulder, still wondering what possessed me to pull out so much food for the girl to simply have lunch. "I'm drained from the ride over. I’m going to get some rest; I hope that’s alright.”

She isn't asking me for permission—it is implied that this would be happening whether I was ‘alright’ with it or not.

Oh well. Anastasia Steele is too possessing a creature. She wouldn’t be spooked away so easily, so why not give her some time to herself. Despite how much I want to unwrap her, strip her bare, fuck and whip her raw... there’d be time for that. Maybe this was why my other subs were so ready to run for the hills—I must come on too strong.

“I’ll be around,” I offer, turning back to the open fridge.

I wasn’t sure she’d understood the dismissal until I turned to see she was longer there and I heard the distant click of her bedroom door closing.


	5. Chapter 5

4 handguns.

I bite my inner cheek and cross my arms. There is my knife as well. Maybe I packed too many firearms for this trip. It was only a couple of weeks, and the security I was able to observe when we docked on the island was ornamental at best. That could always be for appeasing the customers that are arriving—showing that this is a relaxed, laid back escape in isolated paradise.

However, I know firsthand that any location where thousands of people seem to go to drop off the face of the earth can't be that lackadaisical. So maybe I've packed just the right amount, perhaps even too lightly.

I decide to leave my .22 and revolver in the suitcase, removing the other 3 weapons before replacing the false bottom of the trunk, pressing until I hear the almost inaudible click. I'll just have to stash the others elsewhere. It would be best if they were easily accessible around the house, even better if they were irrecoverable from anyone but myself. That was a mission for another day.

I already combed the room down to the fibers of the carpet with my debugger. If there were a camera or microphone within 6 feet of this room, I would have known about it. The wood framed glass sliding door leads out onto a crescent of a beach that stretches down into a dense, tropical body of trees so thick I'm sure there are miles between me and anything else that would have been in that direction. Devices on the other hand, I couldn't be sure. Not being spied on makes this a little easier. For now, at least. Who knew when that would change?

The walk-in closet is half the size of the bedroom, and the bedroom is impressive in itself. There are hundreds of different articles of clothing in here, of all colors and shapes. All seemingly my size, from the few I observe. The goons from earlier must have brought these in. I look about the space slowly, then down. Good enough.

I place one gun on the floor, and quietly guide it beneath the vanity. The other, the opposite side of the closet, above the wardrobe. There. Temporary homes until I can get Grey out of the house for a while. A few subtle home improvements are needed.

Christian Grey.

For the life of me, I'm still unsure what the hell he's doing here. It takes a lot to surprise me, but color me surprised. To think that I have one already massive assignment on my hands, I best be ready for a second.

Not that I have any reason to doubt myself. It is completely opposite my nature to fluster, and doubtful a spoiled billionaire would change that. But...it could complicate things. Nothing annoyed me more than complications.

I open the small armoire in the bedroom and impel my butterfly knife firmly to the roof of the second drawer. Let's see, what do I know about my new live-in dominant...

He amassed the beginnings of his fortune in his early twenties, the benefactor of important, successful parents that were killed in a vacation gone wrong. He developed some seriously impactful green energy tech that he developed and managed before selling off to a Fortune 3. Grey reportedly retired with a fat savings account at the ripe age of 26, wherein all of the headlines of praise and adoration turned to scorn and disgrace: Known playboy marries beautiful blonde bombshell—bombshell mysteriously has heart broken, calls playboy a "monster". That really turned some heads.

At the time, when I first educated myself on Grey's disappearance, I figured the frivolous spotlight on him, from prince to demon, drove him off the deep end. After a very nasty, very public divorce Grey's appearances were always tinted in debased drunkenness. Brothel hopping. Scandalous sex exposes. All painting him as a beast with little empathy for his partners. Then suddenly he was gone.

Hm...

Maybe it isn't that much of a shock that he's here after all.

But something isn't adding up for me. I wouldn't go as far as saying my memory is photographic, but I remember a very specific deadness in Grey's eyes, in any and all of his tabloid cameos. The ones he took with knowledge and the ones without. Even the private photos that'd never graced the public eye, intimate family photos that only organizations like the Syndicate would have possession of. His eyes, although striking and inviting, were so devoid of life.

That didn't match the Christian Grey no more than 50 feet away from me.

I could chalk that up to the extracurricular activities he liked at the time. Although a known alcoholic, Grey was missing 8 years now. He could have definitely gone sober, on a deserted island, with no poor influences to sway him. I swept every room aside from his study. No sign or sight of so much as even a bottle of wine.

Still, this feeling is not so easily dismissible. It would be a rookie mistake to draw conclusions this early on. Presently however, I don't have the mental resources to dedicate to theory crafting.

I had not been entirely untruthful when I told Grey that I was drained. In fact, I hadn't actually slept in at least 36 hours.

37, the steady green illumination of the alarm clock on the bedside confirms.

I draw back the cool, thin sheet that feels far more expensive than it looks; settle into the plush, but firm mattress, and sigh. Grey assured me that the remainder of the day was mine how I pleased; I will get as much sleep as I can fit into my deadline. Up no later than 10—I was already being spoiled. That was more time to sleep than I'd had since I was at least 17.

I settled in, and drifted with no preamble.

* * *

I came twice this morning.

I take a quick glance at my phone—9:57 AM.

I hadn't been able to concentrate on anything yesterday after Anastasia had locked herself in her room. I cleaned up the plate she'd made her lunch on, went for a walk, came back. Masturbated, then waited for her a while. Made dinner. Ate it alone. Looked at but didn't watch the television, just waiting for her. Worked out. Masturbated to the memory of the first orgasm I gave her that day. Then went to bed.

What a fucking display.

I'm almost unable to contain myself though, and its leagues out of my character. At least, current character. In 8 years I have never chased a woman. Either they were chasing after me or running far, far away. This quixotic woman does neither.

Something about her is both frustrating and irritatingly attractive. The way she sees me feels like a direct contest, because there is no fear there. I'm convinced I need to change that.

Finally, 10 am.

I stride right in, after having stared at the door for the past 10 minutes. I was prepared to beeline in this direction whether she surfaced or she didn't.

The curtains are already drawn, sunlight streaming in. Ana is holding herself up by the arms, her sheets pooled in her lap. Must have just been in the process of rising out of the bed. Too bad for her. My erection is instant and flagging.

"You're late."

She is unruffled, watching me serenely and placidly. She intones, unhurried, "I suppose I am." Not even a glance at the clock behind her, or the feigned surprise leading to a hasty apology.

I know, without a doubt, that I will take complete joy in this.

I had rushed into the door, but I take my time reaching her, towering over her. She's so small, and yet those womanly curves, the defiant way she looks right back at me, assures me she is more than capable of handling what I plan to throw at her over the coming weeks.

I whip the covers back. She has one naked leg out of the bed; but I told her "no later than", not after. She is still wearing that oversized white tee and a pair of boxer shorts.

"Undress," I say simply. She knows what she's signed up for, and she, for her own sake, knows the rules that I listed yesterday. Without hesitation, she lifts the tee over her head. Draws the underwear down her toned, long legs. This was my favorite part of the job.

"Come here. Take me out of these pants." And she does. It's almost one motion, her sliding to the edge of the bed and lowering my trousers. I stare into bright, unwavering blue eyes as she first grips my erection by the base, then drops my pants to my ankles. Watching me. Waiting for the next order.

"Open your mouth."

She opens wide, her tongue pretty and small and flat. I slide in, no ceremony. She doesn't look away. Her mouth is warm, wet. Too inviting. One pump, two, then I test her throat. She doesn't gag, so I do it again. Miss Steele is steady and ready and so very sexy, so I can't resist fucking her mouth.

Both hands shape around her jaw, and I push to the back of her throat. "Suck me," I command, and my lust for her weighs so heavily that I can't raise my voice above a whisper. I almost feel her every muscle relax as she begins to work me, her head bobbing up and down the length of me, one of her hands coming to attend what didn't fit inside her, the other wrapping the back of my thigh.

I give myself a mental pat on the back that I've already come twice this morning, because whatever power Miss Steele possesses would have made me come in spades with the way she's gazing at me now. The way she so expertly knows how to alternate between a gentle suckle. A filthy stroke of her tongue. The maddening twist of her hand. I feel undeservingly lucky, to be honest. My own particular brand of irresistible, _and_ she knows how to blow? Some force of nature is being inexcusably kind to me.

Two must not have been enough though—I would have to keep that in mind. She set a lovely, slow rhythm, but I am ready now. I grip the back of her head firmly, give her a moment to brace herself, before I set to fucking her mouth at my own personal, punishing pace. She only reacts for the slightest second, and truly, it could have been my imagination. Her tongue is soft, wet, pliable. Moving. Shaping. Her fucking _eyes_.

I put myself to the very back of her mouth as I come languidly, thoroughly, down her pretty throat. My hands drift from her jaw, down. My thumbs press around the slim column as she works to swallow all of my load. What a treat; she doesn't gag once. She is either very, very good, or very, very experienced. Neither gives me a reason to complain.

I pull out and, _fuck me,_ she keeps that mouth vacuum tight until I release myself from her with an audible pop. Before I can stop myself, I lower so I'm at her level. And I meet those amazing, challenging blue eyes for a moment before I kiss her. Hard. I don't expect to be pleased by it, but she matches my fervor. She doesn't reach up to touch me, but she's kissing me back. I apply the pressure from my thumbs, and as she exhales my tongue licks across the seam of her lips, into her mouth and across her tongue. I can taste my seed on her. I'm ready to fuck her.

But I won't.

The kiss ends abruptly as I back away. Wipe my mouth and put my cock away simultaneously. She's staring at me, chest moving with no more exertion than if she had gone for a light jog, but her body is her only tell. There is the slightest sheen of sweat candying her flawless skin and her thighs are clasped together. Her nipples are begging for a pull, so I oblige her, rolling the hardened flesh between my fingers and skimming my nose across hers.

"I said out of bed by 10."

"My apologies, sir," she breathes. She's in the right place, with the right man—she likes it rough. Her gaze is liquid and hazy, seeing me but looking through me. Imbibing in the sensation of having her flesh tugged at.

"Do you like this, Anastasia?" Was that a whimper I just heard? Fucking minx. I reach to grip her sex, dropping to my knees before her, the hand on her nipple alternating between a savage pinch and a loving caress. I came in this room with the intent to punish her, to show her I didn't tolerate disobedience...I'm easily able to convince myself that tasting her was for my benefit, not hers, regardless of the truth. No matter how badly I ache to see her come again.

My mouth replaces my hand. I greedily suck as much of her left breast into my mouth as I can, groaning as she forces my head to her chest, and her head falls back. Her pussy is impossibly hot against my palm, my fingers as they stretch her. She's tight and wet. Her autonomous reactions are encouraging, lewd—the soft tissues of her insides wantonly milking me for their release. But she doesn't deserve it.

Even I am perturbed as I unfasten her from my teeth, withdraw my fingers from her wanting heat. I rock back onto my heels, and push up, reclaiming my position of towering above her as she attempts to strike me back down with her gaze alone.

I can't help but be amused by the way she glowers at me as I rearrange myself in my pants. I'm as hard as I could possibly be again, but I can withstand, if for the enjoyment seeing her like this gives me alone. Meeting her unusually impassioned stare, I'm riveted. In so little time knowing her, I've already accustomed to her giving me either nothing or utter disdain. This reaction is new. Exciting.

And so delectable, I can't resist giving one of my fingers a taste. I don't moan, but I would have.

But I'm not done with her. Not yet. That is twice now that she has disobeyed an order, and I have a precedent to set. Yesterday she looked away from me when I gifted her an orgasm. Today she ignored the time I set for her to be up and ready. No, this wouldn't do at all. She was _owed_ punishment by now, and I would be doing her a disservice to allow otherwise. I glance at the clock before settling on Anastasia with a smile.

"Hungry?" I offer.

I see one long, arborous breath flow through her before she gives a tight, "Yes."

"Yes…?"

"Yes. Christian."

"That's a shame—you missed breakfast."


	6. Chapter 6

_I was chosen for this assignment for more than one reason._

Yes, my biological mother was involved, and for any rational human being, that would create too much of a vested interest in the case. I would otherwise have no business here. But I wasn't the typical agent. My directors would have been hard pressed to find anyone like me, anyone with my skillset for this.

I grew up without her anyway. Carla Ray was a flighty, selfish woman, always in one place or another. She provided the necessities; a rough outline, and that was it. If nothing else, she was an amazing guide of what not to do. There was no father in the picture; my father could have been any man that I passed on the sidewalk and I would have been none the wiser.

Looking out for myself was always my main objective, even young. I was a good study, breezed through highschool and scholar-shipped my way into a decent college. I worked hard for everything that I did; but the opportunity of being picked up by the Central Intelligence Agency was nothing short of blind luck. The Syndicate found me from there, the rest history.

A conglomerate of a thousand silent soldiers, all tasked with being the masks that the puppet masters wore. They, whoever we contracted out for, pulled the strings. We aided them. We hid them.

The training required to be one of these silent soldiers was...well, if you made it, you were meant to be there, because if you weren't willing to erase whoever you were before enlisted, you would end up losing that person whether you wanted to or not. I forget by now how many lives have died by my hand. No longer keep count how many bullets have been fired. But I can remember how many deadly shots I missed, how many times I have failed.

Too few.

I've been tested for every imaginable benchmark. Those benchmarks are what have placed me where I currently stand, bound by the wrists, hanging from the canopy of Christian Grey's four post bed. Toes just touching the ground, bound to either side to keep my thighs from touching.

I hear the blow before I feel it—a sickening crack in the air that premeditates Christian's belt making a wet connection with my lower back. My mouth falls open but I make no sound. I arch away, and before I can pull in a breath, he brings the strip down on me again. It overlaps the first hit. This time I do make a sound, a genuine yelp that deliquesces to a soft moan. I sink my teeth into my lip, my breath fast, shaky as the stinging pain gives way to something warm. Lush.

They sent me because I'm a masochist.

Another blow flies, and a white-hot burning erupts across my calves, my ankles. I dance in my restraints, hopping on one foot then the other, an involuntary, irrational need to abate the itch, the pain, of where I've been hit, but more comes, and its everywhere. Constant.

My vision begins to tilt. My blood, pounding in my ears, begins to take on a heat that moves languidly through my tingling body. The strikes have a rhythm now, one that is both torturous as it is rapturous. He strikes twice, in a criss-cross so I hurt all over but there are polka dots of fire dotted where the welts meet. In movements that I cannot control, I twist for him, back and forth, round and round in a futilely instinctive attempt to escape his wrath. One set. The back of my knees. The next. Across my midriff. Another. So hard against my thighs that it wraps all the way around, a ring of fire.

Somehow, he knows. He knows not to hit me the places I am most desperate to be abused. My breasts feel three times their weight, begging for even an accidental lash to skim them. My sex is a heady, heaving presence. Outrageously in need of touch. My buttocks as well, has been forlornly ignored. With every merciless smack, I make a conscientious effort to force these parts to him, silently imploring, and he seems to sense that. He knows what he is doing, and he is very good at it.

My pain tolerance is high, to say the least, and Christian knows this. Somewhere in a seedy basement of Madrid, I'd been beaten and battered for months, sessions that lasted more than nearly half a day. Less impressive, as my trainers had needed breaks in between, so it happened incrementally; but I will last well beyond the threshold of the average submissive that Christian Grey would have encountered. If I want to live in my lie, I need to work up to the place where I can withstand longer bouts with this man. If I started high, the ceiling would challenge him to rise with it.

So the small, rational part of my brain has taken over, through the fog of lust, and has instructed my body not to resist any more. Not because I am tired. But because the dancing is what will keep Christian going.

My forehead rests against my forearm now, and I allow the rest of me to go entirely limp. He does not stop, and I will myself to temper my reactions. Jerking, flinching. My voice is rasp, helplessly dry. I didn't register that I've been crying out beyond the first hit.

I watch my abuser now. There is no denying that I am sexually attracted to Christian Grey, more than I care to think about. Moreso in the feelings he is beating out of me. His body is long, lean, well taken care of. Beneath the black tee there is clear definition on him, in his arms, his corded forearms, _his hands._ I watch this blow strike, and the next; more burning, more sting lights up my ribs, my belly. There is a lot of power in those hands.

I'm just dangling by my arms as it ends, panting moist breaths onto overheated, misted skin. Christian is panting too as he approaches me, flinging his belt to the side as his gaze is locked to mine. He grasps my jaw roughly with one hand when he reaches me, burying my lips beneath his in a brutal kiss, swallowing my cries as he digs his fingers into the welts he's created on my thighs.

He's so rough, unrelenting as he physically admires his handiwork. Beneath his every touch is a stream of fresh fire that reignites the fading one. And then he is caressing me, almost as tenderly as a lover. His kiss softens, pecking lovingly at my mouth, then his tongue is tracing the seam of my lips. Sliding across mine. I moan loudly, from pain or pleasure I amn't sure yet, and my head drops back, allowing him all access, any access he desires.

"You are beautiful," he whispers into me, and my eyes slide open to see he is looking right at me. These words that tickle my skin—the first words he's given me through this encounter—cast a deep longing in my core. The restrained, huskiness of his voice situates deep in my belly, radiating and throbbing. This is my favorite brand of sex. The raw amount of pain that I am in reminds me that this job couldn't have been given to anyone more willing.

His hands glide leisurely, firmly down and over every mark he's striped me with until, finally, he grips my ass, pulling me into him. Ignoring all of my protests of discomfort. He releases my jaw to snake one hand between us, and I hear the zip as his hot length throbs against my sensitive core. We watch each other, and the look in his eyes is disturbingly hypnotic; so dark and clear, and he moves against me in one sudden jerk, seeking friction against my slick thighs.

Sweat pours down my body, aggravating my beaten and bruised flesh, and Christian cradles me close, the heavy head of his cock rolling back and forth across my clit. My mewl is pained, almost petulant; I want to come. Flashes of the day before, meeting Christian and him immediately asserting his dominance wash over me, and my insides ache for that release again.

My desire must be written so plainly as he leans over me, licking along the shell of my ear. "You're so fucking sexy like this. Panting and screaming. Begging for my touch." He emphasizes the last bit by squeezing my breasts roughly, pinching my right nipple, twisting it; sucking brashly on the side of my throat. I thought of his cock that had been pressed against the back of my throat no more than an hour ago. I'd swallowed his seed with little hardship, and I'd been teetering just over that fine line of my own orgasm as he fingered me, except that he did not give me permission to come and so I didn't. Even now, with him pumping between my thighs, I silently implore him to give me my release.

I know beyond doubt he will deny that.

But I didn't see him denying us both.

He steps away from me suddenly, maddeningly, and watches me with dark, pinning eyes. I know I am a mess, I know I should be humiliated and frustrated and even shamed in the state he's manipulated me into.

But I just stare back. I breathe as if I cannot get enough air in my lungs, deeply, rapidly. I twist in my suspended restraints, rolling my aching hips, stretching my toes, digging them into the plush carpet as if they could anchor me. I put on the show for him.

The dull pain in my arms, between the blades of my shoulders—that is real. The pulsing, itching streams of fire across my beaten body, that is real. The unbidden, hungry ache for him to place his flagging erection deep into my womb... That is also real.

In a moment Christian seems to collect himself. It is a swift change. He exhales, running one hand through the mop of his hair and the other grips the thick root of his dick. A shudder runs up my spine as my eyes flick down to it, and that too is real.

And then he leaves.

I am at first confused, then groaning as the weight of my own body begins to betray me. My stomach pitches because I'm famished. The stress on my shoulders becomes more prominent, and I have to stop myself from simply hoisting up higher, to abate the strain. My strength to do so is without question, but if Christian were to witness that I am sure he would be displeased. The sweat feels like a scorch now, and distantly I realize that the air cooling in this room has been off this entire time. The warm, balmy air begins to feel like little fingers pressing down on my every injury, which triggers another wave of sweat.

I breathe through the pain. In. Out. In. Out. Shallow breaths that don't agitate my stiff joints. The urge to curl up to the suspensions, to ease this unnecessary discomfort is so strong, and I resist. And still I am helplessly aroused. The foot restraints are loose enough that a curl up would have been restricted, yet easily achieved. It serves its real purpose in that I cannot abate the demanding yearning in my core. I rock my hips fruitlessly, aimlessly, searching for what I know I cannot have.

I had survived much worse, for much longer.

That doesn't dismiss the fact that Christian Grey is proving a decent match.

* * *

The fridge door swings open, blasting me with a wave of cool air.

I remove a bottle of passionfruit mix, and remove the bottle cap on the corner of the counter. Wrapping my fingers around the neck of the bottle, I take one long drink, and enjoy the refrigerated air emanating from the open door. With my free hand, I run through my hair a few times. Then I readjust my cock from pressing uncomfortably at the seam of my trousers.

My heart is still thrumming out of my chest, racing as visions of the prior few moments flash brightly in my memory. _Mmm_ …

I wince and just undo my zipper altogether. I lick my lips and hum as I grip my rigid dick, and Anastasia's gorgeous, writhing body dances behind my closed eyes.

 _No_.

I will not do it.

Masturbating three times in one day was un-fucking-heard of. When a sub was under the same roof, even two times was inconceivable.

But the rapid flow of blood, specifically what I could feel straining in my fist, is making it terribly difficult not to stroll back in that room and fuck Anastasia's dangling and battered little body until my balls are empty. I thumb the drop of pre-ejaculate that begins to bead, hissing as I rub it over the slit of my dick. She'd been so wet. A heady mixture of sweat and arousal that clings to me even now. I still smell her on my shirt, my hands.

I gulp down my drink until it's all gone. Despite my dick flagging freely in the chilled vicinity of the open fridge, my erection will not subside. But I'm not jacking off. I refuse.

I return to the fridge after some time, and finally I can actually think straight. I'd done some strength training that kicked my ass, went for a run, and had an ice cold shower that lent a brutal shock to my system but centered me. On a tray, I've arranged a selection of fruits and cuts of deli meat. I fill a pitcher with 2 bottles of whatever my hands touch and some ice.

Anastasia almost looks to be asleep when I reenter the room. So immobile I barely see her breathe. I set the tray down on the dresser, and from my periphery I see just her eye follow my movements. I turn towards her fully and observe her only a few moments before I set to releasing her. The locks on her feet go first—I unfasten them quickly but carefully, and bind an arm beneath her buttocks so as not to have too much pressure forced on her torso. With one arm free I release the locks on her wrists as well, and each one falls like dead weight in front of her, landing over my shoulders, only accompanied by the tiniest whimper from deep within her throat.

The sound stirs something in me, but I ignore it; she's been punished sufficiently, she needs to be taken care of now. Her bath already drawn, I ease Anastasia into the tub slowly, and I know that the water even though lukewarm, would feel like wet fire submerging her braised skin. Her small cry confirms this. Her eyes are downcast, but from my position beside her I still see unshed tears.

"My strong girl," I say into her ear, softly. A shiver rolls through her and I lightly kiss her clammy temple.

I wash her as gently as I can, hyper aware and hyper aroused by the angry lines that mark her all the way around. She is the perfect picture of compliance. Unlike any other sub I have had, she is not shy as I clean her body, even her most intimate parts. She shakily lifts her arms for me, tilts this way and that so I can access whichever part I need to, even slightly raises her knees so I can wash between her legs. Washing her pussy was the most difficult. Because even in her current state I saw lust in her hooded eyes when my hand made contact with her swollen sex. Her breaths picked up and she pulled that lower lip between her teeth.

Watching her, I rubbed the cloth against the skin of her inner thighs in slow circles. Then up and across her lower belly, and back down to her other thigh I ran more circles. Her shallow breaths cut through the heavy silence in the bathroom, save for the occasional drip of water into the tub. When I did finally close my palm over her pussy I was immediately blasted with her feminine heat. Her chest rose and fell deeply and she'd closed her eyes.

I wanted so badly to tilt her head back, to cover her mouth with mine, and to slide my fingers into her, to fuck her that way until she came and the moans would bounce off of the tiled walls.

Instead I cleaned her quickly, carefully. I took out the stopper, stood her up in the draining water long enough to grab a towel and dry her down before lifting her in my arms and laying her down on the bed she'd just been suspended from; my bed.

From the dresser, I retrieve the small container of cooling gel, and as I sit beside her I warn her, "This will hurt a bit."

She stiffens upon the initial contact, but then gives one long groan as I rub the gel over her, her body weakly raising up to meet my touch when she sees the relief in it. The welts are angry and raised, and only in a few places has the skin actually broken.

She makes a small noise of protest when I stop. I leave the room to wash my hands, and swiftly return and bring the food tray to the bed with me. After a few pillows are placed under her head, I feed her the fruits by hand. I give her a variety and plenty of it, because unbeknownst to her, she's disobeyed another rule—eating no less than twice a day. She'd gone to bed so soon yesterday and gotten up late this morning so I know there has been no other meal; not since the first sandwich she made after I fingered her.

The way she is accepting the food confirms how hungry she must be. Her soft pink lips wrap around my fingers as she claims her meal. Occasionally she'll close her eyes. Sometimes a moan slips. I am so hard for her that I feel dizzy, but I persevere until she's cleared more than half the tray and begins to turn her head away when I offer her more morsels. I set the tray aside and lay on the bed beside her.

For a long while we simply watch each other. Her eyes are heavy and serene, and again I am struck with how beautiful she is. How alluring she is, even just laying here. I reach out to her and tuck her wet hair behind her ear, but my hand lingers against her soft cheek. Eventually her eyes shut from the weight of exhaustion. And the moment is so peaceful, mine do the same.


	7. Chapter 7

_I've imagined 9 different ways to kill Christian Grey by now._

My eyes crack open slowly, despite how raucously the rest of me protests. Christian's sleeping face is beside me. To be in his thirties he looks strikingly young, even innocent in his slumber. His eyelashes are long, dark. His skin is hydrated and smooth, only the barest hint of stubble coming in. He is well taken care of on this fucked up island.

I make a show of getting up. Clumsy movements that shift the covers. I throw in a few grunts for the hell of it. In the first example of what he could do, Grey certainly knew how to set a precedent. I have a few genuine winces from cuts that go deeper than the first layer of skin. He'd disclosed yesterday that many of his subs weren't able to complete their scheduled time with him. I can see why now, if this was only 2 days' punishment.

If I hadn't been explicitly prepared for something like this, I would find it difficult, too.

However, this was the focus of my most recent training. Pain tolerance. Obedience. Depravation and subjugation. I had world class experts to whip me into shape. Quite literally. Shame disappeared. Modesty is no longer a hurdle. I am so conditioned to nudity and being touched now, beaten and whipped, that it is almost like having an extra layer equipped; one that is impossible to penetrate.

The fact that I get off to this lifestyle makes it moderately more entertaining.

My focus is single-minded. Take down this scum of an entity, where thousands of women are signed up for a kinky retreat yet never seen again, my mother included. For a few orgasms, I can probably get it done. But if not, that's just how the mission played out. Making it here alone is the biggest breakthrough. Anything else is just a bonus. And Christian Grey being here—well. I'm looking forward to a decent deposit when I make it back to mainland.

I know that Grey is awake before I've turned in my staggered stretch. He watches me for a moment, his expression almost blank besides the growing hint of a grin on his mouth. The glint in his eye, the raking of his eyes all over me, tells me he is admiring his handiwork. Fair play to him, he did a decent job. There wasn't a doubt in my mind, however, that he was holding back when he whipped me. Seeing what I could handle. Seeing how much farther he could go.

Injuries like this are not the worst deterrent in the world, especially after he had washed and dressed the wounds a few hours after applying them, but it would make my work just a touch more difficult.

So I will pick his brain today. It is only day 2. My mind almost reels thinking this, but it's a firm reminder that I have more than enough time to accomplish what I'm here for.

He finally moves then, gathering to his feet beside me as he reaches up into a long stretch. But he watches me the whole time.

"How are you feeling, mouse?"

I almost shrug, but it isn't worth the effort or strain. "Fine." I add, "Christian," as one of his brows begins to lift. This is all deliberate. The way I speak to him, the glancing he notices I give him, my very slight shifting as if I am experiencing a played-off discomfort. I am constantly giving this man a test that he has no knowledge of. But I know he is doing the same, so I know I have the advantage.

This was my game from the beginning; I've only been caught off-guard that a missing billionaire is the man I have to answer to instead of some other nameless, perverted sadist.

But I need to know what he knows. I need him to develop something with whomever I decide to be in this place. It doesn't take a master spy to see I've already caught his interest. I'm more than happy to play my part to get what I need.

As if I am one of his possessions, he reaches out to me, his fingers strumming across a puffy, red stripe across my shoulder. It hurts, but in a way that settles right in my sex. I don't know when I'd developed such a penchant for pain, but it proved only an asset so far. The most powerful, dangerous men were always gluttonous barbarians that needed to overpower to get their kicks.

"I'm thirsty, sir," I tell him, honest. It's still too warm in this room and I can feel sweat aiming to break the seal of gel that soothes my bruises.

Christian leads me out of the room and directs me to sit in the living area. The couch is long and comfortable. There are a few accent pillows. The TV set is modest and sits on a humble end table in the corner of the enclosure. At the end of one side of the couches is the telephone I'd used yesterday. I situate right beneath the air vent, and the cascade of cool air makes me sigh.

"Here, pet." Christian sets a sweating pitcher down on the table in front of me, and hands me the cup. The ice clinks as I take it from him and we regard each other over the glass until I've tipped it all the way back, emptying it. He only takes a seat adjacent to me after I deposit the glass on the table as well.

"Let me know when you're cold, pet. I don't need you getting sick."

"I will. Where did you go today, sir?"

He looks the tiniest bit surprised that I knew he left earlier. While he had me tied up and aching, to the bed. "For a run," he exhales, clearing his throat. "I did my day's work out and grabbed a drink from down the way. I needed the fresh air."

"Down the way?"

"There's a tavern a few miles down the beach. Usually I take a golf cart over there but today was a run."

"Do you often drink, sir?"

"No. I almost never drink." Hm… that is curious. That's nothing like the Grey portrayed back in civilization. I may have been on the nose about my theory of him getting clean when he disappeared.

"Am I allowed a drink sir?"

"Whenever you like, pet," he motions, smiling. "As long as you are in and out of bed on time and eat your meals, which you failed to do while sober."

"Sorry, sir." I want to tell him to go fuck himself.

"Don't be sorry; I'm certainly not." I ignore the sudden heat that flashes in his eyes and continue my probing.

"Will you also take me down to the tavern?"

"Of course. I would prefer to make sure we have an understanding of each other before that, however. But for now, you can tell me what you'd like and I'll have it delivered for you."

"And when will I be allowed outside?"

His mouth tilts upward at that. He holds my gaze levelly. "Whenever you request to go."

Oh. He did mention that I am not a prisoner. But knowing what I know, I didn't actually take the allowance seriously. I still don't. "Okay. Thank you."

He fully smirks at me now. "You don't need to thank me, Anastasia. You're not a slave in the traditional sense. You can do whatever you want. Within the rules."

"So if I wanted to walk along the beach?"

"You can go as long as you let me know. It's a safety precaution more than a control complex," he shrugs. "You are my responsibility while you are here. I just want to make sure you're safe." This I believe.

I am surprised that he is being so open with me. I was sure that every question I had would be answered with non-answers, or cryptic counter-questions. But that there is a tavern is huge. I came with, but did not see, other arrivals to the island. Other voluntary slaves. So it was clear Christian wasn't the only piece at play here. I need to know to know how big the island is. What I'm up against. But for now, I'll settle for getting to know Grey, since he's so open to it. He'll be more willing to divulge once he feels I understand him, in the long run.

"How long have you been… a…" I struggle to find the right word that won't offend him. "master, sir?"

"I prefer dominant. 8 years," he replies. The timeline fits.

"Here?" I confirm.

"Yes." He reaches for my glass and fills it with water for himself before taking a long drink.

"And you've been here all 8 years?"

"I certainly have."

"Do you ever leave the island?" In the back of my mind I know I need to approach this a bit more delicately, but he is so open I cannot resist. None of this is critical to my assigned objective but it builds on my missing billionaire case.

He doesn't answer immediately. The pause isn't hesitation; he is thinking about it, and I can't detect anything but honesty from the admission. "No. I don't really want to."

I lean forward a bit, wincing as the back of my thighs slide against the seat. Still I press, "But, sir, don't you ever miss being back in the fray of the States? It is very quiet here. I'm assuming you're American—you don't have an accent." That wasn't necessarily true. He had a certain twang that I couldn't quite place. It lilted some of his words.

He shakes his head, taking another sip with one of his eyebrows unconsciously raised. "I don't. I don't remember the States very well."

"What about your family? Any siblings? You don't miss any of them?"

"Not really, Anastasia. I have no memory beyond 8 years ago."

The proverbial gust of wind from opening Pandora's Box is strong. I feel as if I have stepped into a pool three times its advertised depth. I can't camouflage my reaction. I must look stunned.

I am.

What the fuck did Kavanagh throw me in to?

* * *

_Not really, Anastasia. I have no memory beyond 8 years ago."_

There is something in her expression that I find both amusing and irritating. It conveys an almost horror at my admittance. I don't know what possessed me to tell her that. I'm not in the business of sharing my menial life with temporary slaves. But I told her.

That look doesn't last very long, but it does linger. After a moment she composes herself again, and those expressive blue eyes are teeming with questions. She launches right into them. Her body shifts now to face me for this interview.

"So you have _no_ memories from beyond 8 years ago?"

"No," I answer, crossing my leg over the other by the ankle. Amusement is winning over irritation. When I look beyond the sensational, naked curves of Anastasia's body (hard as it may be), I see how… cute, she is. Her hair is a matted mess. She isn't wearing an ounce of makeup. And she's starkly nude beneath an air conditioner that's pebbling her beautiful breasts. But she's too busy questioning me to worry about these things. Or maybe she has never worried about these things.

In all of the submissives I've had over the years, I've never considered if I have a "type". They were all attractive. I fucked them all. I beat them all, if they stayed for it. I would have thought I was attracted to them; but it must not have been attraction if I was to compare their gravity to the woman in front of me. There wouldn't be a contest.

I want more than her body. Oh, I most certainly and fervently want her body. But I am also just curious about her. I'm curious about why she is so curious about me. The look she gives me is confused, but there is no pity, and that is different. It unburdens me. I don't mind sharing.

"If you won't consider this prying…"

"I do," I smile, "but continue."

"Do you remember _anything_ about your life? At all?"

I consider this a moment. "I occasionally get glimpses of some blank faces from my past. Or random memories of conversations I don't understand. But beyond that, no."

If possible, her eyes shine brighter. "What is your earliest memory then?"

"Mmm…the waves," I recall, looking down to the carpet. Just as I had looked down to the sand between my fingers when I woke up here. "And sand."

This gives her pause for some reason. I refocus my attention on Anastasia and she is chewing her lip, pensive. I wonder what she's thinking, so I ask.

"I just… I'm a little rocked that you seem to have lost your memories. That's bizarre, isn't it?"

"Not for me," I chuckle. This girl seems to be able to draw a lot of me so I continue, "I think I'm relieved. I don't know anything outside of this island. There are no bills. No debts. No responsibilities outside of my sexy, curious submissives." I give her a look, half joking, half not, but Anastasia pays me no mind.

If I were given a choice, I would completely abolish the faceless memories. They strike too randomly, too harshly. I am content, perhaps even happy, in my current life. I want for nothing. I am given beautiful women to torture consensually. The only thing I would change is the violent, bottomless hunger within me that has no name.

It is a stream of conscious that flows beneath my active one, just waiting to erupt when I trigger it in our favorite way—dominating women. When it is my time to Dom, I can feel it awaken from its slumber, rattle its cage for release. Whatever beast I was before I woke up that day always finds a way to bubble up and blossom when I need to dole punishment, when I just want to play or enjoy my subs in my sadist way. He is more merciless than I, and I know it is whatever remnant of Christian Grey there was prior to 8 years ago.

When it does happen, that switch from me to him, it is like being a spectator in my own body. I backseat for him, but he is still me. It's no longer terrifying or puzzling. It no longer bothers me. I've learned to live with the dormant entity and even coexist when it needs its time to shine. But, I am always left to pick the sub up after.

They would always be put through more with me. More than any other Dom on this island would put them through, by triple, at least. And I preferred that. Surely, I subject them to some horrific punishments, but I always take care of them after. Aftercare is almost as gratifying as disciplining. I can enjoy that part by my lonesome.

Giving Ana her aftercare was nothing short of Zen. She was so agreeable, so easy to guide and clean up that I ended up falling asleep with her. In the first session of punishment, no less. Others would be beside themselves. Sobbing or wailing or some such, and the overbearing amount of care that they required, I was happy to give, but drained. My responsibility to them is to learn to adjust, and I always do. I just find it refreshing that Ana leaves me without so much pomp.

My eyes shift back to Anastasia after some time. One of the many quirks I am recently aware of is that far too often I get lost in my own head. I'm sure that's always been a trait of mine, but only this woman makes me aware it's happening, because she never looks away or pretends not to notice.

By now, I am doubtful there is anything she doesn't notice.

"Enough about me." I have to end whatever trance she's put me in. I have never spoken about myself this much, to anyone. I think I've suddenly uncovered things I never realized for myself until now. "You've got me all shy now, Anastasia. TV?"

She, in no mistakable way, wants to watch television right now but she acquiesces, carefully sitting back in the couch to face the set in the corner. I make my way to Anastasia's room after I pass her the remote to find whatever she can interest herself with, handing her the silky throw blanket in case she wants a shield from the air vent. I tap the retrieved hairbrush into my palm a few times as I stand behind her. I would have liked even the tiniest of jumps of surprise from her. But she's still the picture of relaxed.

I know she's not ready for another session of play but her unflinching steadiness calls to me almost unhealthily. When did I become so insatiable? In no time at all she manages to hit my switches, so all the stranger in me wants to do is break her over and over again.

I slowly gather her hair into my hands, detangling the wet but drying strands with my fingers. My dick throbs demandingly when I have it all fisted at the top of her head. She's not doing anything but sitting here, staring forward at the television, and I find her to be the most sensual and alluring creature to be in my presence.

Her neck is long and pale, slender. Her shoulders, riddled with my markings, have a smattering of sunspots that ghost the skin. She's pooled the blanket into her lap, but her tits are still out, rising and falling with her even breaths.

I brush out the ends of her hair first, in sections, then all of her soft mane until I can get the brush through without snagging. It's still a mess, but not as bad. As I finish—I can't stop myself; I pull her hair back so she is looking up at me, and I kiss her. Just once, softly. Then less so when she kisses me back.

My reaction is reflex. I drop the brush to the floor and cradle her head in my hands, enjoying the full softness of her lips moving against mine. I don't know what it is about her. I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't give a fuck. My tongue brushes over the curve of her upper lip, and I moan as her tongue runs along mine, as her hands shape around my own.

I have to pull away before I take her. I need to regain control of myself or she's going to be decommissioned for a longer, more unbearable amount of time. But it's a while before I actually do. She accepts my small, lamenting kisses before I look down at her, and I groan as she licks her lips.

She's a fucking tease. Both consciously and un. The blackness in my body doesn't give a shit how disadvantaged she is when she looks at me like this; I just want her writhing under me—pain, pleasure, or both. But I do back away, even as her sexy, hooded eyes follow me. I pick up the brush and excuse myself to my study.

To masturbate for the third time today. She's already too deep under my skin.


	8. Chapter 8

_The first man I killed was someone I'd known._

Not closely, but we knew each other's names. Smiled at each other in passing. I'd given him change whenever he caught me outside of a restaurant I frequented. He gave me sage life advice and told me to stick to my studies and to my morals; that one day I would be the person I wanted to be if I worked at that person tirelessly.

That day, after ages of not seeing each other, I knew the moment that he finally asked me _who_ it was I wanted to be in the future, that he would die. Something in the air, maybe.

I hadn't answered, not really. By then, I was near fully trained in too many corners of the world to be the same young, wide eyed girl that the man met years ago. Too seasoned to know when there was a motive. He told me that there was something he trusted only me to see in a back street. I'd followed. There was no fear in me to go with the man. Because I knew as soon as he asked that it would have to happen. I had initially hesitated in my answer to him—a point I do not relish or mention lightly. I may have even asked him if he was sure it was me he wanted to take.

And he said yes. He did not seize the out I offered. He didn't want it.

He'd tried to knife me in the back. Where he was aiming would have stabbed some debilitating space on my spine. I likely would have been crippled. He'd been too loud. Too clumsy. Too hasty and too nervous. There was no effort in my dodging his thrust and kicking backward. F or my heel to solidly impact the ball of his knee, sending the joint to inverse and the man to howl bloody murder as he crumpled to the concrete.

I'd had mercy then. Even shame, to take another life.

Finding out that the Syndicate, whom I had already sworn to dedicate my life to, sent him—well, that didn't shock me. It was just more training. A message. More of the same. I got it loud and clear.

Christian ambles beside me, his face scrunched in a vain attempt to block out the beaming sunlight, regardless that he's wearing sunglasses. Smiling as always. It's oddly attractive. Cute even. I know that, he too, may be another life that needs to be ended, if that is what the Syndicate needs of me.

"You're looking much healthier, pet. I'm glad."

I glance up at him from the corner of my eye, then down to his naked chest, shimmering with newly applied sunscreen. He insisted on getting me out of the villa, and I did not argue. Recon is recon. "I feel fine now. Thank you, sir."

"Christian," he admonishes, his smile never wavering. In a low voice he purrs, "I'm going to spank you if I have to correct you again, Anastasia."

"Ana." I don't mind poking back. I know he doesn't either. Always cat and mouse with Grey. "I won't spank you unless you command me to… Christian."

I can see in his subtle, long intake of breath that he likes these interactions. Somewhere _deep_ down, I think I do too.

"We'll have to swim in the serf one of these days. It's getting even hotter this time of year but you need some vitamin D. We're at that golden time of the year where the waves are slow and not too strong."

"Aren't you going to ask me if I know how to swim?"

The corner of his mouth quirks at that. "Do you know how to swim?"

"I can drown particularly well."

I was made to transport myself down the English Channel dusk to dawn, with no clothes at 23 years old. Of course I know how to swim. The dossier that Christian has read, however, says that I am 22, so I can keep this trivia to myself.

"Surely there are child floaties I can procure for you, pet. I can teach you to swim." Bless him, I detect a modicum of genuine joy in him at the prospect.

I give him a small smirk, coquettishly entwining my hands behind my back. "If that would please you, Christian."

I don't know if I believe Grey. Believe in his spiel about not knowing who he is. The idea is just so random. So far-fetched. So _complicated_.

If there is one thing I can't stress enough—it is how much I _loathe_ complications.

If he is lying, I will find out. It won't take me very long either. The week that I have stayed on this island so far has given me an immense amount of insight into the man. His habits, his direction. I know what time he wakes up every morning, without fail. How he cooks his scrambled egg and turkey sausage every morning. How long he goes for his workouts and pub visits. That he visits said pubs but refuses to drink.

In one of his trips out, I combed his study. Christian's study was spacious and disarming. The tones of the wallpaper somehow made the room seem taller than the rest of the villa, an impressive feat. A very long desk sat in the back of the room, accompanied by a beautiful winged desk chair. Very executive looking. He'd initially warned that there was no internet access, yet he had a desktop. It had been at least a year since I needed to brute force my way through any software but I put it on my mental to-do list.

The study is also clean of any bugs or sensors. No cameras. No alcohol. So I've dashed that connection to old world Christian Grey. He simply is no longer an alcoholic, of that I am certain. But the rest... well, there are a lot more pieces to his puzzle.

There is a small part of me that, curiously, wants to hope that he is being truthful. That sees his boyish and lascivious smiles and wants him to be as innocent as he makes himself appear.

 _Hope_ in and of itself is not something I can say I am familiar with anymore. I don't know where the alien notion comes from, but I will not let it dictate or distract me from my objective. Christian Grey, innocent or not, sits in such a precarious position that no matter how this goes, my options with him are limited. I am positive that the more I learn, the more those options will dwindle.

I don't know why I am so strongly reminded of taking my first life. My hand had been forced then. The Syndicate sent the man of my past to me knowing that I would have to kill him. Knowing what the man was willing to risk for the chance at another hit of his preferred drug. Those long dead, long buried feelings should have no room to resurface now.

There can be no remorse, no mercy for Christian Grey, if he is proven to be a factor in so many peoples' disappearances. His seductive grins and bolting gray eyes can get him but so far.

Yet I cannot banish this inkling of "hope" as he grasps my hand.

He's been very patient these few days following my first punishment. Once a morning, once a night, Christian rubs me down with the gel after bathing me (I stopped insisting I could manage for myself after the first attempt), and dresses me in soft weaved pajamas before bed. He's cooked our every meal; to which I have no complaints.

During the day, he goes for his workouts—no days off so far—and I plant my weapons in miscellaneous spots around the villa before working out for myself. Of course there is a slight handicap in doing so, but pain has never been a deterrent. I'm as good as dead if I let myself get out of shape or slacken in my fitness.

When Christian returns we sit in the living room and watch movies, then he makes dinner. Then we watch movies before a bath and bed.

In no way, shape, nor form does it escape me how utterly normalized these days have been. Domestic, even.

He hasn't made any advances past the first beating. He kisses me, often. He still watches me with devilish intent when I am naked. But he doesn't make any moves. I don't believe it has anything to do with the condition he left me in the first time. It may have looked bad, but I put on no airs that I was debilitated. Because by now I am itching to see more of the Christian Grey that whipped me the first time.

There was no regret, no remorse, and no pity from him that day. He was coming to claim. To dominate, and there was room for no opposition. Most nights I saw the darkness of his eyes from that day. I remembered the elation his expression masked. He seemed a man possessed, taking and conquering my body until whatever thrill he'd gotten waned, and then the Christian with all smiles returned. It was a strange dichotomy.

"Do you walk this way to get to the pub?" I ask him.

I've woken him from whatever place he is faraway at. His eyebrows rise before he looks down to me and smiles. "No. It's the other way. This is behind my bedroom."

"It's nice," I comment, scanning the forestry to our side. An opportunity hasn't risen where I can go through the trees yet. Even if there is anything to find in there, it would hardly be useful in spying on the villa. But I still plan to go through it. Better safe than sorry.

"Where are you from, pet?"

"New York," I answer automatically, moving my eyes back to him. Observing his response.

He nods slowly, a private joke curving his lips. "I didn't pin you being a New Yorker."

"Why is that?"

"You seem too intense for fun-loving New York."

"You think I'm intense?"

"You don't?" he laughs. I roll my eyes, but without permission, I feel myself smile as well.

Up to this point, I've just gone with it. I've let him have his caring moment. Let him be my pseudo-caretaker. But there is a time limit on this, and he needs a push. I need to know exactly who I'm dealing with if I want a clear head moving forward with the rest of the plan. I have convinced myself of this.

My next task will be re-seducing Christian Grey.

* * *

Her smile gives me mixed emotions.

I've unlocked something in her recently, seemingly after exposing so much of myself to her those few days ago. She is still guarded, still reticent and careful; but I feel that she wants to give me a chance now. She's willing to drop one wall of a thousand to allow me a peek in.

This is an unprecedented situation. I dom. My sub, subs. Outside of play we should be friendly but cordial. We can laugh and joke and part ways after a few months of this sexual relationship and never see each other again. My concentration on them can fade as I prepare for the next one.

Ana is cursed. I want _more_ in her. From her. What a perplexing notion.

The dead and gone Christian Grey in me wants her too, and dread laces my nerves in the thought.

I haven't tried Anastasia again since the first punishment. I know she's fit for duty; her beautiful little body healed up nicely and only the lightest of marks marred her skin at this point. I could do anything with her again… But I haven't. Because that dark part of my brain wants it, in excess of how much I do.

I've had too long to know who I am now. To figure out whatever this new life I now have is meant to be. We are nothing alike, and the more of his thoughts that pervade mine, the more certain I am of this. It is the age old debate of sentience. If I exist, can he? If he is the origin, will I disappear when he reemerges? These things have meant nothing to me in 8 years because I've only ever known a sliver of him. A taste of his memories.

He is Christian Grey.

I am Christian.

I have no surname. I have no family. I have no ties beyond these coasts. I accept that I will be called the full name because it technically _is_ my—his—full name, but I am just Christian.

I'm now too aware that there are more than one of _me_ in my own head. A rip in my thoughts. A tear in feelings.

And so I have mixed emotions in Ana's smile.

Because I want her, but so does he.

Today I wanted to get Ana out of the house. She's been cooped up since she got here. The house is wide and completely open in its spaciousness, but it doesn't compare to being outside. She'd looked up from her book with one eyebrow raised when I told her, as if I was playing a trick on her. I'm more than happy to get her out more often.

My stretch of the island is topnotch, almost like an island on its own. 3 miles of uninterrupted beach in the shape of a spoon. The only connection to the Hub was a thin strip going west. The rest of it mine.

The amenities Grace and Carrick have provided for me make it impossible to miss whatever may have been. I am indebted to them for the kindness they've shown for the past 8 years. The opportunities they've given me have meant the world. Especially the one currently holding my hand.

Giving her hand a light squeeze, Ana tears her eyes away from the tropical tree-line to look up at me. My smile is involuntary. Being seen by her is perplexingly pleasing.

"Are you ready to head back, pet?" We've been walking the beach for a while now. The sun is throwing its creamy sherbet hues, signaling dinner time. Ana doesn't eat enough so I make sure to cook every meal on time, and more than I know she'd ever accept.

"I'm ready," she says.

* * *

The table is set with salad, a few slabs of garlic bread, and hearty helpings of spaghetti. Ana is wearing a very thin, powdery blue camisole. The equally thin bra-let inside of the fabric does near nothing to conceal her nipples beneath.

"You've showered," I note as we dish up. I frown sarcastically, but I _am_ mildly disappointed. I more than enjoy caressing Ana head to toe.

She dresses her plate swiftly—surprise surprise, not much on it. "I thought I would save you the trouble since you cooked."

"I always cook," I smirk.

"And I would have always saved you the trouble." She is still an utter mystery, but I find small delight into these little glimpses she gives me of herself.

"Do you know how to cook, Anastasia?"

She stops chewing and makes a face. It's such a disgusted face I initially believe she hates the food I've made her, then she mutters, "Not in the slightest."

Terribly amused, I disregard my own plate at that, leaning in to the conversation. "It can't possibly be that bad."

"Couldn't it?"

"How do you usually eat then?"

"I order."

"You ordered takeout every night?" Either she has a goddess's metabolism or she worked out 3x as hard as she ate. I haven't seen her work out while on the island though. Maybe she's taken a break.

"Just about." Her eyes are on a meatball as she spears it, then pops it into her mouth. I take her lead and do the same. "I'm not home often, so fast food is convenient."

"Nothing beats a home cooked meal."

" _Anything_ beats my cooking. Why are you smiling like that?"

I look up from my plate, withholding a looming grin. Even someone like this has flaws. It's a nice reminder. An entertaining reminder. I'm still hopelessly enamored with the girl.

"I'd like for you to make me something one day."

"Ha!" For a moment, my fork hangs suspended in the air, my eyebrows drawn as I stare at her. It wasn't a real laugh per se, but she laughed. I've never heard her laugh before but I'm suddenly dying to. Derisive or not.

"What's funny?" I smile, because I can't help it. "I've never been more serious. If I have to make it an order, I order for you to make me something one day."

We finish our meal over light chat. I ask her an endless volley of questions that she answers good-naturedly, but in her typical, Ana fashion.

Ana has never had a pet, but she likes dogs; big breeds. Her favorite food is chicken parmigiana. She prefers sweet over savory, with a strong sweet tooth. Her favorite programs are cooking shows despite not knowing how to cook.

"What?" she'd demanded, almost offended that I'd laughed when she told me. "I still like food. I'm just smart enough to know to never attempt to do it myself."

I take up the dishes after we've finished. She offered to do them but for no particular reason I just want to take care of her.

"Christian."

"Yes, pet?" I call over my shoulder. From the corner of my eye, her pale feet appear next to me. "What's wrong, are you hurt?" Concerned, I turn to look her over briefly but stop short as my eyes meet hers. An abrupt but steady flow of blood thickens the crotch of my pants.

"No," she breathes, "I'm not hurt." Ana's laughably thin shirt has one strap fallen down to her tricep, her nipples straining against the fabric. She is completely bare below. No pants, no panties… Her hair is piled high atop her head; a fluffy bun with strands dripping down to her shoulders—and her eyes _beg_ me. They are so dark, her pupils deceptively wide and dilated.

I don't want to break the glass in my hand so I place it in the sink. Turn off the tap. I breathe slowly and deeply as I dry my hands; before I turn back to her. I lean against the counter, letting my gaze scour her every sensuous curve. I don't look up from the womanly cleft between her legs as I ask, "What is it then, pet?"

She doesn't answer, not verbally. Instead she steps forward to stand between my legs. Her eyes hold mine for a very long, very telling moment before she drops them to my throat, then my chest, then my dick, before flitting to mine again.

"May I, sir?" she whispers.

"Yes," I answer without knowing what I've agreed to. I don't care. I don't think any of my blood is pumping to my brain. She can have what she wants.

Her hands slide to my sides, a slow delicate touch that ignites me instantly. She reaches those hands behind me, then up, up, and I can feel her nails just scrape along my shirt as she shapes to the blades of my shoulders. I watch her closely, pulse beating in my ears. Her eyes are fucking breathtaking. Her lips are parted and I can hear her shallow breathing. I have to white-knuckle the edge of the sink to avoid ending this. To avoid taking her as roughly as her sinful body can take it.

One hand comes around to my front, her thumb skimming the plane of my stomach, and as her palm comes to rest on my chest, her fingers entangle in the hair at the base of my neck. She leans into me. She reaches up on her toes. She licks her lips. And she asks again, "May I?"

A familiar smolder sits in my belly, flows through and tenses my muscles. My evil, nameless depravity sings as it festers, as it yawns and searches for purchase to have its time with her. Another day, another woman, I would allow it. Not now. It's had her once. I want to enjoy Ana all my own.

I capture her lips softly, a slow kiss to prime her, to communicate that her seduction over me is a ringing success. And she lets me have her. Her mouth is so soft and welcoming. She moves against me effortlessly. Her little body is pressing up against me as she reaches to match my height.

Her touch is warping my concentration of will.

The fingertips softly brushing my nape turn to a light scratching, and my dick pulses a stamp on her smooth stomach. Her lips are unbearably soft as my tongue moves over them, and she presses even closer when the lick emits a soft moan to vibrate between us. Her kiss is so impossibly intense, that I failed to realize that I am no longer gripping the sink.

Soft, yielding flesh is squeezed between my fingers. Ana's gorgeous bottom. Before I can stop myself, I'm clawing at her. Grinding my fingertips over her rounded ass before one hand releases her just to come down in one crude smack. Ana jumps in my arms, surprised, but she moans. Doesn't squirm away.

I lean even further into her, deepening our kiss, assailing her with my tongue and groaning as she chases me with her own. This time it's the other cheek, and I repeat the smack with much more force, squeezing her roughly and forcing her into my hardness. It's here now. That thirsting rake of need to bend her. Break her.

Ruin her.

Her breath is ragged as she pulls away, her eyes hooded, mouth swollen from my sudden violence.

But it isn't necessarily _my_ violence she needs to worry about.


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're going to start separating POV's now. The chapters are (for now) getting a bit longer, so I will post one POV at a time. Thank you for your eyes~

This is exactly what I'd been looking for.

 _Who_ I'd been looking for.

The shift in his tone, his cadence, is not lost on me. Somewhere in our kiss, I managed to flip the switch that I'd been looking for, and I found the elusive part of Christian Grey that's been avoiding me these past few days. I dutifully catalogue that his previously swimming gray eyes have darkened to hard slate as he stares down at me, and his previously relaxed expression seems almost expressionless and cool now.

"Come," he says, releasing me and stepping away.

I simply follow.

Interestingly, he brings me to my bedroom. The moon bathes the room in light with the curtains drawn back, and Christian is a dark, imposing figure as he turns toward me, his profile near black. I don't know where it comes from but a shiver runs through me seeing him like this. He is so much imposing than he was mere moments ago.

It's different. He is different.

"Get on the floor."

I do, mindlessly.

"Spread your knees and lean back on your elbows."

This as well, I do for him. I'm wet. I know it. The heat of our kiss still burns across my lips. The imprints of his hands are branded across my ass. The room is cool, but not enough so to dull the heat that dews my skin, quickens my pulse.

He just watches me like this. The natural illumination of the night is shining right down on me, and I know he sees the reaction he's had on me, my desire. For too long, he says nothing, makes no more commands, and my hips start a repressed rocking that begs him for friction. For attention.

"Look how wet you are from just a kiss, pet," he purrs, and my head falls back, my lip caught between my teeth to suppress a moan. "Your perfect little pussy is almost dripping. Which part of me do you think of when you move your hips like that? Answer me."

"Your mouth," I whisper. And it is true. Spotless images of Christian's mouth sealed across my sex flash through my mind and the cycling of my gyrations isn't enough.

"Is that how you'd like to come, pet?"

"Yes," I breathe, caressed by the low rumble of his silky baritone. He moves then, dropping low into a crouch that shocks me. There is such animalistic grace in the transition that I feel slightly uneasy presenting myself so vulnerable. He looms above me now, and somehow his dusky gaze is bright with his anticipation. He hooks his arms beneath my legs and nuzzles his cheeks on the inside of my knee, his breath hot, fanning.

I know as soon as his gaze connects with mine that this isn't the Christian Grey I've grown accustomed to.

And then his mouth closes over my sex and I cry out. One finger dips into me, stretching out my insides and pressing down as he roves my clit with the tip of his tongue. From under me, one arm reaches up, his hand slips beneath my excuse for a top, brashly squeezing my breast and slapping the flesh before pinching roughly at my nipple.

I don't think I've ever been this aroused in my life. I buck against his face, near mindless with the need to race for my orgasm, but locked in place under Christian's steely arms. My eyes are riveted to the stranger beneath me, unable to look away from the sensual savagery he studies me with as his tongue licks at me, his mouth deliciously wet with my arousal. He denies me friction with his thumb stretching my walls apart and still they clamp around him helplessly, seeking out his rejected pleasure.

He continues his assault on my breasts, and that he is drawing more pain from the continued ministrations, delighting in it, causes shooting desire to churn in my core.

"Are you ready to come, pet?" he rumbles against my sensitive sex.

"Yes, sir. Please, sir. _Oh, Christian."_ I don't expect his name to tumble from my lips, but I can't suppress it when he slides another finger into me the same moment he vibrates the tip of his tongue across my clit. My sex tightens, the warning pulses of impending orgasm, and just that quickly Christian's mouth is gone.

He rises over me, the foreboding blackness of his eyes piercing right through me. The expression he fixes me with telegraphs such violence that instinctually I tense, expecting a blow when his hands come up to me, but they deliver no such rage. Instead he barks an order, "Up, on your knees," and as I scramble to obey he releases his erection. Whips my tank up and over my head and flings it off somewhere. My eyes are drawn to the bobbing column of flesh, my mouth pooling in expectation. But in its place, his fingers tap my lips, the fingers that were inside me.

"Suck," he growls, and I do, opening my mouth and sliding my tongue over his digits. He goes back to my breast with his free hand, pawing the mass and then smacking it between pinching the nipple. Pleasure dizzies me, my eyes almost disappear in the back of my head with his punishments, and when just the thought of rubbing my thighs together crosses my mind, his foot lightly knocks my knees apart further. The shame does nothing to dull the ache of frustration within me; only adds to it.

My tongue caresses the rough pads of his fingers, stroking him, teasing him. He groans low enough at a frequency that reverberates right through me as he releases my bruised breast to grip his throbbing erection, the heat of it almost burning as he slaps his dick against my cheek.

"Do you want me to fuck you, pet?" he inquires, so low and impossibly silky that I flush with the reaction it has on me. "Do you want to milk my cock with that greedy little pussy of yours while I fuck you to an orgasm?"

"Yes," I gasp, startled by my own vehemence. "Yes, Christian, please."

"Get on the bed, Anastasia. On your side, turned away from me."

I do, and I hold my breath as the bed dips down beside me, feel his body heat at my back. I'm so close to coming I think I will embarrass myself the second that he is inside me. The sheets are cool, and my chest hums with pain from his cruel touch; I resist the urge to grind against the bed as I wait for him.

And wait for him.

And wait.

Then suddenly, he pulls the coverlet from the foot of the bed up over us and wraps an arm around me.

And nothing else.

I wait, with minor agitation, feeling the hot length of his penis against my ass, and so long passes that Christian's breath in my ear evens out. Deepens. His cock softening.

He's… _asleep_?

It is with good fortune that I'm turned away from him. I'm so confused, and sexually bothered that I can't straighten my thoughts. I don't know what my face would give away.

Who _is_ this man?

Why is he so complicated? I have never dealt with such a confounding, unpredictable person in my entire life. He spells out a situation so clearly and then does the exact opposite of the projected outcome. I bite back the cool ire settling within me, willing myself to relax under Christian's arm around me lest he notice. I just narrowly debate myself out of bringing myself to orgasm, and irritation flares high within me again.

I breathe slowly, a sidelong attempt at relaxing. It is very clear that the seduction has ended here tonight, infuriatingly. I just have to try again tomorrow, try harder. This is all just the preliminary work to get where I need to be, to figure out _who the fuck_ Christian Grey is, I remind myself. I can't do it all in one day.

With the soft sounds of Christian's slumber in my ear, I begin to doze. It takes a while, but I control my body's reactions, I lull myself to calming. In my dreams, the devouring heat of his eyes haunt me. Has seared itself into my mind. I can't shake the sense that it was a different man entirely.

* * *

I awake alone the next morning.

The reminder of last night's… stupefaction, is evidenced on my inner thighs. Encases me like a second skin in the form of sweat. I don't jump up immediately, listening for the ambient sounds of kitchen ruckus or footsteps.

He isn't here.

I slide out of bed and drop right into stomach curls, reluctant to exercise but knowing it must be done. Ignoring the dull ache emanating from my tit.

There is a dramatic, antsy anticipation in my belly, as well. It sits, distracting and unfamiliar as the memory of Christian's mouth on me plays unwelcome in my thoughts. As does the vexing inconclusion of last night's activities...

I hit 50 and turn over to brace on my hands, lowering into pushups.

Strength flows through me, the pull and burn of my muscles almost pleasant in its habitual way. A new layer of sweat beads my skin now, percolating with the steady increase of my heart rate. Pondering the night, I try to dissect the dichotomy that is Christian Grey. The one that held my hand and walked me along the beach versus the one who whipped me and made a fleeting appearance last night. In a bit of an effort, I try to extricate the frustration of the night from the new insights I have gained.

_Lost his memory, huh._

For a hint of a second, I let myself believe that Grey _has_ forgotten his prior life. That he indeed lost his memory in some freak accident 8 years ago, no too dissimilar to his parents and disappeared afterward.

That he is innocent.

The thought doesn't last long—there are too many questions that come with it. Why did he vanish as suddenly as he did? What brought him out to such a remote place that even the Syndicate has a hard time locating? What does he know about the civilian disappearances? Is he involved? Was he involved 8 years ago? _How_ did he lose his memories?

With a long exhale I lunge to my feet, breaking into a jog in place, knees high.

No, couldn't even cap the tip of the iceberg with this one. At this point he is almost guilty by association. The evidence is stacked too tall against him, and his story is simply too convenient; there are too many holes. But playing devil's advocate, if by slim chance he could reasonably answer to those questions, and perhaps he is unaware of the fate of the submissives when he is finished with them…?

I ponder this, crouching into squats and stretching my legs out in front of me.

I've witnessed his dual sides now, have sensed the shift in the air when one part of him overtakes the other… maybe it isn't too far of a stretch…

Ugh. Fucking complicated.

Christian is due to return from his morning workout in not too long now, surely. Tomorrow I will phone Kavanagh. I don't want her opinions on this. She is too trigger happy and willing to pull the plug too soon to get anywhere, if the going is tough enough. I just need to brief her with the absolutely necessary details and go from there.

I try to convince myself that I'm not too invested in this, but I know that there is a skin deep itch now begging for a scratch.

* * *

When I emerge from my shower, Christian is… dancing.

I thought I'd heard bass from behind the closed bathroom door, and I opened it to the stereo blaring out. It plays a crooning, swing song that flows through the summery villa. The floor is freshly mopped, the inky boards shimmering with the sunlight coming in. The scent of sweet and sterile floats over me. Beside the stereo a mop is perched in the corner, against the wall.

And Christian is just dancing.

Mild irritation flits through me. I don't have to guess which Christian is in front of me now.

His long legs, encased in sweatpants, shuffle gracefully from side to side. His eyes are closed but his handsome face is lit up as he sings pitch perfectly, his wide, enticing mouth turned up at the sides. His broad shoulders rolling to the rhythm.

I'm attracted to Grey.

Annoying as the thought is, I can't kid myself into refuting it. As much as I would like to pretend it isn't so, denying the fact gives it more power. I can't put my finger on what it is about him, I can only acknowledge that it exists. It _should_ make my job easier, in that I do not have to will myself into arousal for him, that he can draw it out of me so naturally. That my reactions are helplessly organic.

It _should._

I _should_ be able to use this to my advantage. I already have Grey strung up. He wants my flesh as much as mine wants his. It should take me so much less time now to chip away at the secrets I need. To infiltrate his mind and extract the information that will bring this mission to a close.

But I am distracted.

The litheness of his long, toned body is a distraction. The rakeability of his slightly too long, disheveled brown hair is a distraction. The unpretending, mischievous glint in his eye and the sensual, evocative curve of his full mouth is a _distraction_.

How badly I want to fuck him is a distraction.

A ripple of disgrace whips my gut. In a week, have I forgotten the bevy of beautiful men that have betrayed entire countries for me? The lives taken by men because of my whisper in their ears?

I'm Anastasia fucking Steele.

I don't do tittering heartbeats and blushing cheeks. Or fluttering stomachs and breathless desire. My toes don't curl outside of sex and I don't crave any one man's touch to get me off.

So why the fuck am I distracted?

No. Enough of this mindless house-play with Grey. The faster I get a move on, the faster this ordeal is over. I've never once been so innately drawn to one person that my focus has shifted. Now would certainly not be the circumstance that this changes.

Just like that, I slide my mask back into place. It only dropped for a moment. A moment is all it takes to re-establish discipline.

I would have to try harder at my seduction now. Last night would have lauded a success against any other man, but this one is a challenge. Very well; I'm more than ready to rise to it. He'd mentioned before that he was willing to take me down to that pub, and I know for a fact that I can uncover a whole slew of information there. He wants us to get to know each other better first?

_Can do, sir._

There's no better way to invite a man's weakness than to allow him inside you. With fresh purpose, I approach him, holding the top of the towel close in preparation to drop it at the most opportune moment. He whirls on me then, unexpectedly, beaming as he serenades me, holding his hand out and beckoning me to him.

My step falters. He's not normal. This island that he inhabits is not normal.

To be so at odds with the hard, prepollent man of last night… to this? This dancing, charming, and devastatingly handsome man? Fear is an impossible concept to me now, but I'm unsure of which of his personalities I should be most guarded towards.

I'm not sure who is seducing who.


	10. Chapter 10

_Cat's out of the bag—I'm crazy._

If she didn't realize it sooner, the night before certainly spelled it out for her.

I reach my hand out for Anastasia, beautiful and indescribably enticing in nothing but a white towel clung to her siren's body, her hair wet and splaying across her shoulders. I know I've made a mark when even she can't withhold her dubious expression.

I try to brush off how aggrieved the look makes me, the way it churns me up internally. Jimmy Rushing and I belt out " _Boogie Woogie"_ as I reach for her, a guileful attempt at wooing her. Winning back her somber affections.

Our fingers meet, and I flinch. Stricken with black flashes. From the edge of her towel, I can see what I'd done to her the night before. Her skin, thin and pale, is colored with the early signs of bruising, above her right breast. I withhold a groan at the sight. Horrified and horrifyingly taken that it was me who'd done this to her.

Grey is voracious. Fucking coward. If he was just going to insist on resurfacing, then maybe he should have been strong enough to endure whatever the fuck he was running from before he passed the reins.

This situation is unprecedented. Mortifying, even. I don't know how to keep him at bay anymore, and it affects me greatly. Irrational or not, I can't help but feel that the girl's presence has something to do with it. With 8 years under my belt, I've learned to deal with this caged monster. To keep him in check; and now I'm left unguarded, bereft of my own actions, as soon as she shows up on my doorstep.

But I cannot avoid her. The taste of her skin ignites me. She's been here just passing a week now, and the scent of her envelopes me like the most sensuous embrace when I return home from my workouts. Knowing that I will experience it again makes leaving her that much less unappealing.

Some ethereal, preternatural sense forebodes me. How much I crave her be damned—I know that if I find myself inside her, I will lose ground. Nearly too much to recover. Fucking her will be the last string that would undo all of this trying work.

And so with otherworldly strength, I resisted her last night.

God, at this very second, peering down into her endless ocean eyes, my cock floods for her, for the stimulus she drives in me. How capably she submitted beneath me, almost eager. The suggestion that she wanted me as much as I have yearned for her is too much to bare.

I understand how unfair this is to her.

I acknowledge how much money is required to even be considered to be here.

I despairingly accept that she came into this experience likely looking for a good, hard, dominating fuck.

I know how much I will wallow in suffering battling her allure.

But how willing am I to relinquish control of myself over one, temporary girl?

I wrap one arm around her towel-clad waist, lifting our hands up to one side as I shimmy her across the floor with me, hopelessly entertained by the shift from uncertainty in her brow to wry amusement curving one corner of her mouth. Whether it's my dancing or my crooning that entertains her, I don't know.

But I'm addicted to Miss Steele in a very bad way.

* * *

"Reading or writing?"

"Reading."

"Mathematics or science?"

"Hm… Science."

"Comedy or Romance."

"Comedy."

My eyebrows raise at this, and Anastasia observes me over her mug of tea. First me, then my hands paused on her feet, back to me again. I resume her massage at once; heaven forbid I displease her, the new object of all my inner turmoil. She is soft and compliant between my hands, aromatic almond and coconut oil sheening her skin.

"That's two things I wouldn't have guessed about you, Anastasia."

"Two things?"

"You like cooking programs and comedy specials, when you neither laugh nor cook," I chuckle to myself, delighted by the glare I sense her pin me with.

"I laugh," she sniffs, leaning over to deposit her mug on the glass table. Not expounding. Not noting when or what makes her laugh. My smile grows.

We're getting out of this house. The both of us. I would have preferred to hold off taking her down to the pub a while longer—most subs got to go around the first month mark—but I realize with some dismay that being wrapped in Anastasia's pheromones is making my struggle just that much harder.

On top of that, I am in desperate need of… something.

Guidance, help, a swift kick up the ass— _something._

It seems when I'm out of the direct vicinity of the girl I can force myself to actually think. Which forces me to remember that, despite how it almost never feels like one, this is my _job._ This woman has paid a hefty sum of money for me to touch her and fuck her and I would be doing her a disservice to deny her that. As I had just resolved myself to doing.

My mind may have already been made up but it was foolish not to remember that Anastasia is _not_ mine to control, in the grand scheme. If for any reason she doesn't believe she is getting her proper due, she can and very well may decide to leave. The thought is inconceivable. I can't allow it.

But I can't allow myself to slip into the void that my baser subconscious occupies, either.

If ever a more vexing conundrum existed…

So we'll both go out. I can treat Ana to a nice pub meal and atmosphere and hopefully catch Grace or Carrick for their advice on the matter.

I don't know if they can help me. I don't know if anything in the world can help me with this creature. But they've gotten me this far. They put a name to my face and the faceless man within me.

I trust them; the only two people in the world with the favor.

Evening hours of The Hub are a stark contrast to its day counterpart, which are my frequent. It's the perfect time for doms to get their subs as flustered as possible before parading them about to the rest of the community. Humiliation and public display were a large part of the allure; the alcohol and communal spirit of _sharing_ temporary property another.

The very thought of another man—woman, entity, spirit, insect— touching Anastasia incites bewildering rage in me.

I have _never_ experienced such a contemptuous feeling, but I can label it: blind possession.

I've not only offered up my girls to the other doms while under my watch, but offered them to the other _subs_ as well. The idea now, for Ana, seems so brazenly heinous that my teeth suddenly snap together.

I'm certain I'm staring off into space again; Anastasia's undeviating attention always greets me when the haze breaks.

"I'm sure, mouse," I muse, recollecting myself, picking up where we left off. "The science preference makes sense."

"Oh? Why is that?"

"You are a very no-nonsense woman. Dare I say, even clinical?"

"I _do_ laugh," she snaps insistently, and a bark of laughter escapes before I clap a hand over my mouth. She fumes. It does nothing to halt the shaking in my shoulders. When she kicks out at me, I grip her foot fast, placing a kiss on her instep. On an impulse, I sober, holding it to my face as I look back at her.

"If you kick me, pet, I reserve all rights to retaliate."

_I shouldn't be doing this. Goading her._

From the very moment I met her, Anastasia has been promising me nothing but a challenge. Where other submissives showed fear and trepidation, Ana boldly bodes the opposite. Grey counts on her defiance, prays for it. As soon as I realize this, I drop her foot back to my lap like she's burned me, in case she is tempted by the offer. I resume rubbing between her toes as I clear my throat, redirecting my interests to anything _other_ than punishing Anastasia.

Her watchful eyes miss nothing.

"I wouldn't have kicked you very hard," she offers.

I glance up at her ruefully. "I don't know about that, pet. You may be a lot stronger than I initially would have guessed."

Beneath her satin-smooth pale skin I've discovered an unexpected amount of muscle cording her calves, between her thighs. The indecent amount of times I gawk and paw at her is without question, but somehow I really managed to miss just how toned she is. Belatedly I wonder if I should have equipment delivered. If she would be pleased by this. She obviously takes very good care of herself. Unfortunately, that attracts me to her even more.

_Definitely a siren._

Ana's previous little smile falters. Wavers. It's so rare, there is no way I wouldn't have noticed it. In the blink of an eye, her profile seems to have cooled. "I used to run here and there, back home."

Unable to resist the opportunity, I ask, "Would you be interested in running with me here? I'm happy to have a partner."

She deliberates for a moment, unblinking. "I'd like that," she says quietly.

"We'll start this week?"

"It's a date."

Fuck's sake, I'm hard again. If it weren't so irritating I would be embarrassed. I don't specifically remember teenage years but I doubt even then I would have been reduced to such raging hormones. If these erections are also due to Grey's restlessness, then I'm completely ready to snuff him out of existence.

I'm not the only one who has noticed.

With one patient, slow look down, Ana lifts her other leg, skimming her foot over the tent of my pants. "Does that excite you, Christian," she asks. "Thinking about seeing me panting and sweating beside you?"

_Fuck's. Sake._

She knows _exactly_ how much her image excites me; her toes are "palming" my cock beneath my sweats, and I quickly need to release her other foot; I'm not sensible enough to stop her, but I don't want to hurt her.

Well… I do.

But for the sake of my sanity, I do not.

"Pet," I warn, my hands balling to fists at my side, teeth grit. "Don't start something we don't plan to finish."

"Who said I wasn't planning to finish?"

I don't answer her. I can't. She's taken to stroking my abdominals with her left foot, caressing me, teasing my nipples. Toying with the waistband of my pants as her toes curl and play with my concealed erection.

I hiss once, hard. "Ana," and I would like to tell her, but this is her last warning. I will not allow her to stop if she continues now. I didn't come last night; and while subjecting myself to the wiles of this woman daily, that was a mistake.

"Pull your pants down for me, Christian," she murmurs.

Grey can't contain himself. Thrashing and gnawing at the edges of my vision, hooding my eyes; but I endure. Focusing entirely on the anchor that is Anastasia's gorgeous eyes. Not on the sensations she's driving me mad with. Not on my heartbeat resonating straight to the organ commanding all blood flow. I lift my hips for her, dragging the band of my sweats into my lap.

I groan as Ana licks her lips when I bob into view, and even in the very little she is wearing I need to see more. Invite more torture unto myself. "Scoot closer, pet. Part your knees. Yes, baby, just like that."

She's delicious. Between the milky smoothness of her thighs, her pussy glistens with her arousal. She's using both feet on me now, straightening me with one instep before gliding both up and down my length. The oil I've massaged her with is being used against me. Her strokes are lubricated with just the right speed, just the right amount of pressure.

"Touch yourself," I ground out, fighting off Grey. Fighting off orgasm before I can see the treat of Ana playing with herself.

She does so with no hesitation, sliding her shorts to the side before spreading her wetness over her sex.

I almost can't take it. Almost. The inky shadow hovering on the edge of my consciousness staves me off, and even though the unbearably erotic visions of Ana—tied up, naked and squirming in this very position while I flog her porcelain skin—pervade me, I hold out. Unwilling to share this experience. Wanting this moment with her all my own.

But, _fuck,_ she doesn't make it easy. I can reel in but so many forces at once. I can smell her. Her and almond and coconut and the scent is dizzying.

 _Up, down, up, down_ , her slick little feet stroke me, her movements somehow clumsy, but not sloppy; the control that she always carries herself with is in her touch, pushing me ever closer. Her gaze is hot and heady as she masturbates herself—two fingers fucking her tight pussy, two fingers rubbing quick, lazy circles over her clitoris.

Wet slicking of her feet over my dick and her fingers over her precious cunt gloss the air; accompany Ana's quiet mewls and my diaphragm-deep moans. And she never looks away. Not once.

She comes then, her body tensing as a shudder vibrates her frame, locks her muscles in place. Growling, I grip her feet with both hands, forcing them to fuck me root to tip until my hips rock up and lock as well, cum shooting and roping straight into the air before landing on the tips of her toes. The back of her feet. Her ankles and my thighs.

No sooner than I release her feet am I dragging Ana down to me by her legs, pulling her into my lap and cupping her neck to fasten my lips to hers, thrusting my tongue past her parted lips to lick across her sensuous mouth.

The things this girl does to me. How quickly she has me spun for her. You could have warned me a thousand times and I wouldn't have believed it. I've never wanted another person more in my entire, recognizable life. Bordering on ridiculous and excess. Whatever spell she's casted in showing up here, she's succeeded. She's got me by the balls, strung up and awaiting.

I'm in far too deep.

I reluctantly release Ana for a shower, and to dispose of my cum laden sweatpants.

With the sun setting low, we dress light and start for dinner.

* * *

The Hub glows with a distinct, unhasty energy. The evening not yet dark enough to invite the night patrons while ushering out the afternoon crowd in preparation for them. Like an old western saloon transplanted to a remote island, various uncomplicated paintings hang from the wide space. The decoration is almost antique but atmospheric. I recognize the faces dotting the intimate round tables among the room. I nod in all of their general directions. My hand on the small of Anastasia's back pressing closer.

We cross the threshold, proceeding over the heavy unpolished wood planks that add a particular charm, our steps loud and creaking.

Ros stands dutifully behind the smooth, marble bar, a glint in her eye as she whistles a catcall at our approach.

"Look who's decided to surface. I haven't seen you in some time, Christian." Naturally, no. I only come during the day, and she is purely a night hostess.

"Ros," I reply in greeting, sliding into my barstool after Anastasia is in hers. "Are Grace and Carrick in?"

"Yep. They're in the back. Need me to grab them?"

"It's nothing urgent," I assure her, "But let them know I'm looking for them. Its quiet tonight, isn't it?"

"Everyone must've gotten the memo you were showing up." Her dark eyes slide over to Anastasia, a smirk forming. "And this…?"

"This is Ana. Ana—Ros."

Anastasia's head is lowered when I glance down at her. For a fleeting second I wonder if she's alright, before I realize that this is a show of subservience. I'm struck by the fact that Ana hadn't shown me, her dominant, such docility. Apart from the very first few seconds of our meeting. From there it ranged from icy standoffishness to coolly impassive.

"Nice to meet you, precious," Ros purrs. I see her interest plainly. Hard to blame her.

"And you, Ros," Ana replies, her voice low but level. She doesn't lift her head.

I frown at the curtain of hair blocking my view of her. Shock had framed her wide eyes in our first meeting. And she'd been disciplined without my need to say so with her body, so I'm not surprised by her good manners in the presence of strangers.

But she never bothered to hide her face from me. I feel blockaded now. To already be so unreadable, my fingers twitch with the desire to pull her head back and force her eyes to mine. To see what momentary glimpses into her thought processes I can decipher.

Ros steals the honor from me. She takes Ana's chin between her thumb and forefinger, studying the brunette's face, twisting her this way and that. I hide one supremely balled fist in my hand, my eyes tight as I watch every movement between them. In my head, Grey and I agree on one simultaneous thought: _Mine._ The intensity of the claim stuns me.

Ana makes no unnecessary moves under Ros's uninvited touch, but she doesn't resist. Bemused, I look on as the encounter goes on for far longer than I appreciate.

 _Foolishness_ , I chide myself. _Folly and hubris_.

This is reprehensible. To be regarding this woman as I am; so… _personally_ , and not for the first time! The possession I feel for this girl is repulsing to a stomach flipping degree. As if her showing up here released her of all rights to be found attractive to anyone else.

And if she had only a clue…

If she had any idea what nightmares my baser side would perform on her… The things we would subject her to if given half the chance… No.

She is _not_ mine.

I stiffen in my seat as a volley of violence erupts behind my eyes.

Grey doesn't approve.

The first day I led her into my home, I'd considered what life it was she'd put on hold that brought her to me. I'd pegged her for business. For the wife of an unsatisfying husband. Despite knowing full well she has no such man in her life, Grey has a sidereel playing of all the ways to eliminate any competition from taking Ana away from me. Horrible, ghastly, _expensive_ ideas that relieve me that he is locked away and I have taken his place.

 _Competition_ …the thought is insufferable.

 _All_ of my thoughts are suddenly insufferable.

"I think I'm jealous, Christian. This one is a catch and a half."

I'm snapped back to glaring at the side of Ana's head. When I don't reply to Ros, annoyed and willing my jaw to relax in its clenching, she asks if we'll be ordering. I wave her away, admittedly a bit rudely, telling her we'll need a moment. Taking stock of myself.

Beside me, once Ros is clearly out of earshot, Ana raises her eyes to mine. Looking almost as curiously at me as I am at her. She doesn't say anything. Really, she doesn't need to. Her face, for once, says it all.

_What's wrong with you?_

I turn away from her then, bothered by how desperately I wanted to see her mere moments ago but decamping as soon as her clever eyes call me out on my strange behavior. I don't understand my actions, my reactions, any more than she does.

They're new to me, too.

"Are you ready to eat, pet?" I ask, releasing my fist to slide the menus between us, not awaiting a response.

"Do I have a choice?"

I smile despite myself. "No."

In a way, Ana's rigid discipline is soothing. She doesn't fidget. She doesn't twist and turn to take in her surroundings. There is no fear or tension in her posture. And in that way that is distinctly Ana, I know that some part of her mind is trained on me, studying me quietly and without interruption.

Feeling more composed, I lean into her, gathering her traitorous hair off of the shoulder facing me and twisting it unto the other. I nuzzle her bare cheek, then skim the tip of my nose across to whisper into her ear.

"You're never this well behaved when it's just me."

"I'm _always_ well behaved." Her tone is a honeyed mewl, soft and low and only meant for me.

"I very much recall you wanting to kick me in the face an hour ago, pet."

"You offered." Her head turns to me, a fraction of a smile on her lips. In just this small exchange I regret having brought her here, regret sharing her intoxicating presence with anyone else. I want to swing her over my shoulder and pound the pavement to get home. To throw her down on the nearest flat surface and ravage her raw. Fireplay is one of her hard limits, but I want to brand her with my essence. Mark her irrevocably so that there is no mistaking whom she is with.

Impossibly clever, she must see into my fantasies. Must know how degraded and elementary my feelings toward her are. She's not simple-minded. By now she's seen more than enough of my tumultuous displays around her to have formed her opinions. Likely plotting a time to make the call that would whisk her away from me.

But her hand has somehow found its way into my lap.

And she's looking up at me in a way that says the complete opposite of my thoughts.

"I'll eat If it means we can go back home," she teases.

_Home._

_We…_

In a blink she's quelled my delirious haze. My shoulders suddenly ache as I relax them, sagging from the weight of seeing straight again. My sadistic fascination with her lives on; the too-vivid revelries dripping down from my chest and settling hot and heavy in my balls.

I know instantly that I've just dipped a toe into Grey's eyes.

"Hungry yet?" My eyes shoot to Ros who bounds back over to our section of the bar but pauses as she gets a good look at me, oblivious to the mess of myself I'm making in her pub. "Whoa… Sorry, Christian. Am I interrupting?"

_Fuck man, get a grip._

"No. You're fine. What would you like, Ana?" I straighten in my seat. Focus on the laminated plastic in front of me.

"A burger, please. Medium-rare."

"Same." I prefer my burger well done, but I don't correct the order.

"Drinks?"

"Hm…" Ana passes me a short glance as she hums, thinking. "A long island for me."

My reply is automatic, "Water."

"Coming right up."

"Thank you. Not drinking for the occasion?" Ana inquires once Ros departs.

"I never drink, pet."

"Why's that?"

"Not for me." I collect her menu, stacking it with mine to slide back to its original position beside me. "And what's the occasion?"

"Our first date night, of course." I still as I raise my eyes to hers. The feigned expectation in her eyes has a smile tugging at me.

"We're on a date, are we?"

"Aren't we?" she challenges, mischief in her.

I give her a look. One eyebrow raised.

"Do you remember your first date, Christian?"

"I don't."

"Your first kiss?"

"Nope."

"First fuck?"

Desire pools hot in my stomach a second time hearing the word fall from her lips. "No, again." I just narrowly stop myself from asking her the same question, but know exactly where that will lead me. Enough baiting the beast. "Thank you, Ros."

Ros sets our respective drinks down in front of us and winks at me when she leaves. She was once one of the women I thought I was attracted to. Had no trouble sleeping with and then moving on the next day. I feel next to nothing now towards her. Not with Ana sitting in the same room.

"It must be nice," Ana muses, startling me. The jury is still out for debate as to if she can read minds. "Not being tied to your past. Being able to forget things you probably don't want to remember."

I shrug under the weight of her suddenly lofty gaze. No single part of me feels unseen. Even Grey frolics in the attention, but I send a silent prayer that he is the one thing she never uncovers. "At times. As anything."

"As anything," she echoes.

We lapse into an easy silence, but it doesn't last long with Grey battering at my concentration, so I pull Ana into another round of menial questions that give me tiny peeks into her mystery.

She doesn't have any cousins. She's well-traveled. She has never been to New Zealand but wants to go. Her favorite comedian is a British man I've never heard of, but vow to watch with her this very week. I don't cease my interview when the food arrives. I've only ever had my burger well done, that I can recall, but Ana has converted me, and so my meal with her is made just that much more enjoyable.

Medium-rare is superior.

In the midst of some choice tongue-in-cheek humor, I feel a hand clap me on the shoulder.

I'd been watching Ana, so I knew that they were there before they'd ever touched me, and I turned to look up into Carrick's warm and sun-worn smiling face, matched only by Grace's behind him.


	11. Chapter 11

Anastasia

_Two people, a man and a woman, walk into a pub…_

I wish I had a punchline to this joke, but something tells me that these two aren't subject matters deigned appropriate to laugh at.

I have to discount Christian's strange behavior tonight. Ignore his anxiety and possessiveness. An opportunity has presented itself unlike any other so far, the taste of a breakthrough. I can deal with and address the man falling haplessly apart later on.

I've been around dangerous strangers a too decent portion of my life now. Trained with them, drunk with them, fornicated with them, and so, like a sixth sense, their presence is inescapable.

Suffice to say, you don't live this long in my line of work without recognizing the other killers in the room.

I know a dangerous man when I see one.

"Ana, this is Carrick. Here's Grace, behind him."

_And woman, apparently. This just got very, very interesting._

His introduction is stilted, as if he is offended that our evening is interrupted when he sought these people out. My head immediately bows after the first bit of eye contact with them both, my hair falling around me like a veil.

"Now, now; none of that," Grace tuts, stepping forward. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Ana. Is Christian treating you well?"

I answer as if I don't sense Christian tense beside me. Or hear the faint but present reproach in her question. "Very well," I smile, lifting my head up marginally. "Nice to meet you both."

"She's lovely," Grace coos, not looking at me anymore, but at Christian. As if I am his purebred, prize winning puppy. "You'll have to show her off one day. I can only imagine the reactions she'll breed when she's fully prepped." _What a horrifying choice of words._

Christian must not like it either. His jaw makes an audible snap as he stands abruptly, nodding his head in the direction Grace and Carrick had come from.

"Can I borrow you a moment?"

"Of course. Carrick, keep Ana company, please."

"My pleasure."

Carrick faces me fully then, his mouth curving to a smile that doesn't meet his dark blue eyes.

Wolf's eyes.

Wolves were the Syndicate wide term for our compunction-less soldiers. One step above mindless hive, two steps below whatever position I hold, but as dangerous. Wolves are the hunters—killers. Thinking isn't in their job description, not when it's an order. They do as they are told, remove whomever has been marked, and await the next one.

He could produce a stack of charity and adoption papers to exhibit his worldliness and Carrick would still scream murderer. Simply meeting this man has given me one massive leap forward in the process. For a flicker of a moment I'd wondered if I was losing my edge, if Grey was some anomaly that dulled my senses. But no, I'm back in my role. Like I never left. Carrick has something to hide and I will find it. Just a matter of when and what.

"May I?" At my motion for him to sit, he does. He takes over Christian's stool, waving Ros over and ordering a whisky coke as Christian stalks away with Grace.

Adrenaline is coursing through me in his proximity, lighting up my nerves. He has the composure of a trained man, ex-military maybe. No unnecessary movements, paced breathing. A normal person used their entire body, subconsciously, to begin a conversation. To exhibit openness and willingness to socialize. This man begins with his eyes. They slide to me sidelong, scanning me, and though it is an action that happens quickly, it is telling.

"You're not the typical waif we assign to Christian," he says, finally turning to regard me.

I lift my head, tilting it and letting confusion color my features. "What would the typical 'waif' be like?" I ask.

"Less intelligent," he smirks, sipping his drink.

I blink at him, modulating my response. Oh yes, this was a man with many things to hide. He's quite a bit older, medium built. Handsome, in a classical way. In a fair fight, there was a slightly skewed chance that he could best me. If I were to have the advantage of surprise, however, he would have no chance at all. I could stomp between the discs in his back and crack his neck before he even had time to scream. Or slit his throat when his back was turned and drag his body away to the sea that was never more than a few hundred feet from us in any direction.

I wonder what he sees when he looks at me. What my eyes say to his, someone with as much experience in death and doling it out. To an untrained eye, there's nothing to hide unless you're too far gone. But for someone who reflects that emptiness? That missing piece of humanity that you give to the ones you kill? You recognized it in people like you. Fellow wolves amongst the flock of sheep always manage to sniff each other out.

No, he has no reason to doubt that I am anything but what he may have received on paper. I know what I project, can see it in the reflection of his faded-denim blue eyes—innocence and curiosity. A small, unassuming brunette with her legs crossed at the bar drinking a long island iced tea.

But if he were half as good as I am, his warning bells would be yelling, " _DANGER, DANGER_ ", just as mine are.

"Thank you. I think," I chuckle, tucking errant strands of my hair behind my ear. "So I have you to thank for putting us together?"

"Correct," he replies. "Grace and I place everyone ourselves to get the best match."

"Christian's apparently had some trouble with the last few matches. They weren't able to stay."

"No. Not enough grit. He needs a sturdy sub that can handle his flights of fancy. You seem to be doing a good job of that so far."

"It's hardly a challenge; Christian is very warm."

"When he wants to be," Carrick shrugs, smiling a small, secretive smile. Is this man always so telling or is he looking to bait me? There's no way the average person could sit beside him and not get a sliver of creepy across the mind.

"Do you and Grace also dominate?" I ask around my straw.

"No, those days are long behind us."

"Good days, I hope?"

"You couldn't begin to imagine." And I now strongly desire a shower.

"Did you both establish this island? Put it together?"

His clever eyes glance down at me, wary. "Yes and no. We were a large part of its inception, but we mainly just run it now. All of the boring logistics are on our plate. None of the fun."

"And the matchmaking," I add.

"And the matchmaking." He grins and evil billows off his person, smothers me. Just then Grace calls out, to Carrick, bidding him over to her. Christian isn't with her, and turning back to me, Carrick says, "Well it was enlightening getting to know you, Anastasia."

I smile coolly, nodding as he stands. "Right back at you. Keep me company again sometime."

"With pleasure," he offers, and then he departs.

I watch his back until he turns the corner, fully out of view, but I keep my expression still. The amount of cameras strung about the room would capture my every little breath, and despite how cognizant I am of who has just sat beside me, I know they will play this interaction over and over and over, reading into my every word and movement.

I don't know how long I will have to myself so the less time spent idle, the better. Now that a mark has appeared, my purpose feels fresh and beckons me.

I slip off of my stool and make my way to the restroom with Ros's directions. The women's room is the furthest down a long hallway, one door away from the exit. Unless they're hidden in the toilets (which would shock me none), there are no cameras in here. With no preamble I slide the window open as high as it will go and hoist myself up and out, kissed by the balm of tropical night air and sea. With a quick, thorough perimeter check I spy only two cameras, one facing the walkway leading further into the "town", and one more aimed at the back door of the pub.

My stride is long, silent. Meshing with the foliage. There were a handful of burly men standing around as we'd made the walk to the pub from the villa. Guards, of course. If one were to do their own perimeter sweep of this building, it wouldn't be convenient for me. There were few places to hide a body here, and the night is not quite dark enough to blanket a puddle of blood in the sand, should it come to that.

Ducking beneath the flat sill of a window situated in the back, I peek in, slowly, carefully. The room is black, no sign of life. The moon bounces off what must be a desktop monitor, and soundlessly, I lift myself in. It isn't powered, and there is no power running in the room at all for sensors. I'd known before I entered the room, tipped by the lack of electric hum.

A sliver of incandescent light stripes the floor beneath the closed door, the muffled sounds of the pub just drifting through. Beyond, I also hear Grace's soft, polished voice. I let their conversation come to me as I search the dark bookcase, the shelves.

"You have a responsibility, you know that."

"Yes, I understand." Grey. He sounds as rough as he's looked all evening. My perusing slows marginally, focus shifting to the desk drawers, carefully sifting through a spine of sun-wilted pages. "Its… I just haven't been feeling… myself, lately."

There is a pause in their chat. "Is it affecting your work?" Carrick.

"Yes, and no," Christian hesitates. "It isn't constant. It comes in episodes."

It is… interesting to hear Grey so flustered. Vulnerable. He trusted those two wolves, clearly. Making it ever harder to dismiss him of guilt. As they are very, very guilty.

Of what, I have yet to discover, but most certainly will. My instinct has yet to fail me. My being alive means my biological guidance has a decent track record. Doubtful that I will find the most damning of evidence in this room in somewhat of such a public space, least of all if there is no camera in the room, but I press on, seeking out the wiring and wall ports.

"Should we… make arrangements for the girl?"

"Ana?"

"Yes." I still in my crouch, glancing at the door.

"I don't understand. What sort of arrangements would be made? Sending her home?"

"Possibly, if she'd prefer. Or we could arrange for someone else to take her in…"

Her statement tapers off. A reaction to an energy I imagine Christian exhibits as he says, "Absolutely not," his voice hard, almost distant. I recognize it. Recollections of his hands and mouth on me pass my mind, unsought and unnecessary. "I have no interest in handing her off, least of all to anyone else."

"Christian," Grace chides, as if beginning to lecture a child. "This isn't fair to her. She's sacrificed a lot to come here. It's selfish to deny her what she's come for." As if I am the real concern here.

"I understand that," Grey snaps.

"And you haven't laid with her yet? It's been well over a week, Christian. You know that's far too long."

He sighs, not bothering to disguise his frustration. From my periphery I spot a colored cord stretching into the room from behind a metal cabinet. It's fed in from the wall. An Ethernet cable. Internet access. I turn to the desk again, combing the wooden furniture piece until my hand encounters a flat switch.

Carrick echoes Grace's concerns, but his tone is flat, inflectionless. "There will be space in Gail's household, if she needs to be moved."

"She already has Taylor."

"We can place 2 subs in one home; we've done it before, Grace."

"It's. Not. Happening."

"Christian, why did you come to us? You knew what we would say in regards to the girl. If you aren't capable—"

"I'm capable. Forget I said anything," he says, reserved and defensive.

The switch opens up to a mini desktop, palm sized, stationed into the bottom drawer. Beneath it lay a single sheet of print paper with numbers in long strings contained in a matrix. Almost like a crossword search for mathematicians. I commit to reciting one string, and quickly file it away. I don't have time to go through it or try my hand at any others.

If only Christian could stall them just a bit longer.

I know he won't be able to. He's irritated, antsy, and they have his guard all the way up. I don't let myself consider that it's for my sake. Better to imagine that Grey is simply having a tantrum being told off by the people who appear to be his boss. Whatever the scenario, as soon as he stomps away from them he will be looking for me. Likely ready to leave.

"Well now that we know you're struggling, we can't simply let this continue, Christian."

"I said—"

"Show us," Carrick says, all assertion and authority. "Show us that you are capable, and we'll drop this. For now."

A silence passes as I turn the little desktop over in my hands, etching the MAC address into memory for my phone call with Kavanagh. It has a bare amount of dust on it, indicating frequent use. High chance it would do nothing for us at present but if she was watching for the soonest sign of life in the device we'd be in business.

"One week," Carrick continues. "You've got until this time next week to show us what progress you've made with the girl, how well you can train her; or we reassign her, and find you someone less distracting. Understand?"

There is no reply, so I can imagine that Christian has nodded as Carrick's voice softens. "Forget about whatever is troubling you, my son. None of it matters. None of that old life can touch you anymore, you know that. Focus on the now. On fulfilling your responsibilities, to yourself and to your curious new submissive. She's got a lot of potential but she'll need your firm hand to be excellent. You owe her that much."

The breath of Christian's sigh skates across the floor, resigned. "Yes. You're right."

"Good." Grace's treacly smile reaches me even from behind this door. How interesting. Scenarios like this do nothing to abate that nagging suspicion of innocence in Grey. I almost feel bad for the man, being manipulated in what seems like every direction. There was no way a billionaire CEO would allow himself to be swayed this way and that; so easily, so _patronizingly..._ "Let's put this mess behind us…"

I tune them out again, rolling my eyes and sighing inwardly. It didn't take a scientist to gather what they wanted from Christian, what his new expectations of me would be.

Now, I likely _will_ be paraded around like a winning show dog. I put the wearisome prospect out of my mind. They'd be returning to the pub for me any moment now, so I shift gears.

I replace the box in its home, rolling the drawer shut mutedly. With a once-over of everything, I climb back out of the window, resetting it like I was never there. No guards, no fuss. I slip right back into the bathroom, sweeping the beads of sand that trailed me to the side with a piece of tissue.

When I reemerge, nothing has changed. The same people are sitting in the same seats even. A few eyes pass over me, but I ignore them, my head low. I go right back to my long island iced tea, leaning against the bar; enjoying the sweetness. Allowing myself the short pleasure and glancing at Carrick's abandoned whiskey. I hear the footsteps approaching, but I don't react to them, playing oblivious.

"Pet."

I turn at the sound of Christian's voice, observing the tension in the corners of his eyes, his gait. There's no one behind him.

"We're leaving," he says, grabbing my hand and leading us to the saloon doors.

"But my glass—"

"Bring it with you. I'll return it tomorrow.

He didn't speak again the whole way back to the villa.

I know what he was thinking. Naturally, I'd heard a decent amount of the conversation he'd had with Grace and Carrick, so I knew what would be coming. Still, I kept my mind busy with the discovery of the number string, of the mini desktop. I played the numbers over and over in my head, holding onto them until I could parrot the string backwards.

When we get in, I excuse myself for a shower, and Christian is waiting for me at the door to my room once I'm out.

"Sir?" He hasn't calmed any since we left the pub. He might even be worse now. His hair disheveled as usual, but his hands have made more than another couple of voyages through the mess, as of recent. His shirt is unbuttoned just below the collar, smooth skin peeking out at me. His belt loosened around his hips. I disregard the stirrings in my abdomen, continuing to dry myself.

For a few beats he doesn't acknowledge me. But when he does, his eyes are dark. The color and strength of steel on me. My hand pauses where it is, and I relax myself completely, knowing that he will notice it as well.

"Do I satisfy you, pet?" he asks suddenly.

"Yes," I answer, not thinking too much on it, not needing to stretch for the truth. Satisfaction is a moot desire. Machines do not have desires, and so I avoid them. Don't need them. If it makes my job here easier I can put on the show, otherwise, it is a non-necessity.

He watches me, evaluating my response, eyes sharp. "How?"

"You take care of me, sir. And in return, I take care of you."

"Is it enough?" he asks quietly, and a flicker of the Christian I am used to greets me.

"It is," I say, approaching him. Wrapping my arms around him and looking up into his troubled, handsome face. I am still wet, and I know I am wetting his clothes, but I know he will not mind it. I know his feelings for me are beyond casual now; he sees something in the persona I've created for him. I want him to. And I can ignore that the persona is bleeding beyond its barriers if it gets me to my goals. If it gets the mission done.

He doesn't move, doesn't make a move to hold me as well. He is stiff and still, just looking down at me, studying me. When he does react, it is to unknot the towel, letting it puddle at my feet. His throat bobs, his eyes dropping to my breasts. I know he's staring at the bruises he's left. My reflection in the mirror of the bathroom showed they were already yellowing, fading. The edges still have a bit of color, of evidence. There is no pain now, but the memory of his hands on me last night create something within me, a lightly sprung coil.

"Did you like last night, pet?"

"Yes."

"You enjoy being hurt?"

"I enjoy being hurt by you," I answer quietly. His inhale is sharp. Surprised. Roused and arousing with the growing intensity of his stare.

"Tomorrow," he begins, his limbs coming to life and reaching around me, securing me, "I won't hold back with you. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

"Do you know why?"

"No, sir."

"Do you want to know why?"

"Does it matter, sir?"

His throat bobs again, his eyes searching mine. "I suppose not, no." A moment passes. "If you ever feel like you need to leave…"

The weight of his expression pins me, holds me hostage as much as this damned mission does. "I'm not leaving."

" _If_ you ever feel like you need to leave… tell me first?"

"I'm not leaving, sir." I draw closer, hold him tighter. Pressing my assurance into his skin. Tracing it into the sudden scorch of his eyes. "I won't leave you, Christian."

He kisses me then, a heated, almost angry kiss that stings as he bites at my lips, nips the corner of my mouth. In his fury, his desperation, I taste relief. Yearning.

I pull back, taking his face in my hands, meeting the furling gray of his troubled eyes. "Take me to bed," I whisper. And he does. Lifting my naked form into his arms and depositing me on my bed, then stripping his clothes off and wrapping around me like a second skin. As hard as his body is, his cock is, he doesn't touch me beyond seeking the comfort of my presence.

I oblige him. Stroking his arms, his nape, until his breaths turn heavy and drugging and drag me down into slumber with him.

* * *

Kavanagh picks up on the first ring.

"Still breathing, then?"

"For now." I cut pleasantries short, rattling off the MAC address and the number sequence on the paper from last night. "Keep a note of it, tell me what you find."

She hums, clicking her keys. "Nice to speak to you, too."

"Got anything?"

"Not yet," she sighs. "I'll run this through the network and see if we get a hit. Where'd you find this?"

"A pub."

"They have a pub there?"

"They do. The burger is pretty good."

"It better be, with how much it costs to get there."

"Find me a Grace and Carrick as well, would you."

"Surnames?"

"That's what you're here for. Carrick is approximately 5 feet, 9 inches, 50's or early 60's. Blonde, graying hair. Straight nose, upturned tip; unbroken. Blue eyes. Likely some sort of combat training."

"Got it. Grace?"

"Dark, brunette-y, blond hair. Direct, hazel eyes. Work done on the nose. Sharp jaw. Maybe 5 feet, 8 inches. On the prim side; likely comes from money."

"I'll be on the look out. Alright, how are thing going over there? Anything new on Grey?"

"No," I lie smoothly, reflexively. "Working on it."

"Really?" I bristle at her doubt, but temper myself. "I suppose if you haven't found it yet it'll take a bit to uncover. Is he a good lay, at least?"

"Couldn't tell you," I drawl. "Put a line out for 8 to 9 years ago, and look into the accident involving Grey's parents. I also need you to look into fiber networks that run south of the Caribbean, but focus on Carrick. He seems like a golden ticket right now."

"Done. I can have this to you in a few minutes. Got time?"

"No. Grey will be back soon." Another lie. Christian has at least another hour before he gets back in. I just want to get off the phone. "I'll check in when I check in, but make sure you tap that MAC."

"Alright, can do. Ana?" she stops me as I move the phone away from my ear. A second passes, and I hear her lean back in her seat. Kavanagh has a habit of twirling her hair around her finger when she is thinking. I know she's doing it now, debating how to word her next thought to me. In a rare occurrence, her tone hardens. "Don't take unnecessary risks. Get what you need and get back to me for extract. We're not willing to train anyone else right now."

"I'm going." I don't await a response when I hang up. I'm not annoyed or surprised by her impersonal instruction. This is an impersonal business, after all. Should I die, it would simply be the nature of the beast. An inconvenience for the Syndicate to find someone equally as skilled. To place them in the right circles in preparation of the missions they would be chosen for. But this one would be a bust.

They wouldn't have a problem replacing me now, though, if they'd known I was hiding information about Grey in my brief. I'd weighed my options before I'd dialed Kavanagh. I came up with not having enough to go on to make the assertion that he was indeed suffering from a memory loss; but also that disclosing his alleged defect too soon would make it easy for Kavanagh to spin the objective on its head, to focusing it on Grey, when it needed to be on exposing the island.

I'd convinced myself of that, anyway.

There really was too much to unpack with him. God must be laughing at me; at the misery Grey's complications bring me. I must have complained too much before getting here. I'm being taught a lesson now, surely.

To tangle matters even worse, things were beginning to feel awfully… sentimental.

I shudder.

How wildly out of character. How _vexing_.

The guns are fully dispersed now. There was no corner of the house besides Christian's study and his bedroom that didn't have some form of protection hidden away. Those rooms, so far, had seen little to no action anyway. The past couple of nights Christian has slept in my bedroom, holding me until the early hours. My training necessitated that I sleep light for the rest of my life, always ready and alert for the soonest need to be, and so every morning I feign unconsciousness as he strokes my hair when he awakes. Watches my stillness in mock-slumber. Kisses my temple before he leaves the bedroom for his morning routine.

The tenderness of his touch, even believing I have no knowledge of it, makes no sense to me, to my practical mind. I've never had a lover that caressed me with such affection, an almost reverence, that didn't stem from delusional ego or undeserved triumph, as if I were a trophy, hard-fought, that was won. Christian touches me almost like he needs to, as if some primal instinct forces him to confirm I am present and breathing. It's baffling.

Especially when he's yet to fuck me.

It has an unsettling influence on me. Another confounding, unknown piece of Christian Grey that further scrambles his puzzle.

No matter, I have a lead now. Christian is too unpredictable, his factor too unknown to count on for advancing in the present. He hasn't been entirely dismissed, especially not after the downright criminal context of his conversation with Grace and Carrick yesterday... It spoke volumes.

Really, they ought to be more careful discussing matters of drilling and trafficking their customers, as it would be impossible to argue any other angle at this point.

But, for now, Grey will remain at the side of my concerns. Just out of the way so my focus is where it needs to be. On those thousands of missing people with no hints or a trace. And by omitting what I've learned of my dominant, I can ensure the Syndicate focuses on them as well.

I cast a glance at the ornamental clock high on the wall, then make my way to Christian's study. The criminal implication was teased in the vaguest way, but still discussed so blatantly that it pains me to believe Christian could be so naively obtuse to the connotations. He was either in the know, or so tragically innocent that he didn't have a clue.

But Grey is in the business of doing and showing the exact opposite of expectation. I could probably roll a die and that number would tell me more than his actions could. And again, that vagrant sentiment of _hope_ twinges at me. For his sake, it would be nice if this feeling manifested to something substantial.

As frequently as the thought casually crosses my mind, I would still loathe to have to kill him.

Unlike the mini desktop in the pub, Christian's computer is mid-sized, and dust free, but not from usage. The box, unassuming and dated, whirs to life unhurriedly, whistling with age and neglect. The prospect of a former industry tycoon using such a beast is more amusing than it should be. I don't dare believe that what I find on it will be the end-all, be-all for Grey, but it would be nice.

Naturally there is a lock. Coming to this island was one big question mark for me, for the Syndicate, so the precaution of light packing seemed ideal at first.

Now that I'm here, however, I could have probably worn a gun clip around my waist and juggled grenades on my way off the ship and been left alone. Brute forcing is an inconvenience, but a mild one. I won't be able to get in tonight, but likely in the morning it would be good to go.

If the contraption can survive the incursion, that is.

As it _finally_ opens up to the boot menu, I lock in.

When the work is done, I have a few minutes to spare. The code will inject itself even while the PC appears off, so long as it stays powered. Christian always leaves me a share of his breakfast in the convection oven on warm, and he finds me chewing on a bit of egg as he returns. Sweat drenched and sun-kissed.

"Good morning, pet. I'm happy to see you. Come here."

I drop my fork and stand, and as my foot lifts, Christian raises a hand.

I halt immediately.

That hand holds up just the pointer finger, a command, and then its pointing at the floor.

"On your knees, pet."

He _did_ warn me that this was coming.

I no less want to tell him where he could shove that finger between his own knees.

But I do as I am directed, lowering to the floor. Crossing the room to him on my hands and knees, keeping my mask fixed steady as I hold his gaze until I sit just beneath him, the scent of sweat and musk and sea salt layering him and dripping down to me.

He doesn't move to touch me. Doesn't say anything. He just watches me like that, his expression unreadable. I watch him back. Knowing who he is summoning today. Knowing which role I will be donning.

"I hope you're ready, pet," he murmurs, dropping to one knee. He pushes my hair back, cradling my face in his hands. "I'm going to finally break you how I've always wanted to."


	12. Chapter 12

Christian

Electric.

It might be the most succinct descriptor for what it feels like to dominate another person.

To be entrusted with their safety and wellbeing.

Their pleasure.

Their pain.

Somewhere in there, it coincides, melds, with my sadist needs. My utter rapture of their pain, and translating it into my own pleasure. Orchestrating that transition.

I've never struggled with this knowledge. With knowing that a person suffering at my hands, willingly, makes me incorrigibly aroused. It's a desire born from intransigent ego, can only be quenched by their voluntary subjugation.

Grey doesn't dictate this need; he only amplifies it.

"Follow."

I guide Ana to my bedroom, finding the small box in my nightstand delivered to me this morning. I sit on the edge of the bed, crooking my finger, and Ana crawls between my knees.

"Up. Hold out your hands."

She does, and I pass the box over, smiling at her confusion.

"I didn't get you anything," she intones dryly. "Sir."

"We're sharing this gift, pet. Open it."

Something not quite classed as hesitation rolls over her before she can dampen it, but she pulls on the gaudy red bow, unclasps the metal concealing my present. She looks at it for a long moment before meeting my eyes again.

"Thank you," she says, and she is unmistakably _not_ thankful for this.

"Give it here. Turn around and take your shirt off."

I take my time, just touching her, caressing her skin. A streak of gooseflesh erupts across her shoulder blades, the only reaction to my touch. I shift her hair aside and lean in, encircling her lovely neck with the white leather collar I've gotten for her. Fastening the catch and letting my fingers linger.

"Does it fit?" I ask, reeling in my huskiness. "Is it too tight?"

"No, sir. It fits well."

"Yes. It does."

I raise up, circling her, coming around her front. I'm hard, of course I am, with this quixotic woman beneath me. Collaring her is not something new in my household, any household. Every sub that chooses to stay receives a collar until they don't. Until their time is up.

How I've collared her, however, is novel.

Anyone else, all of this would have gone differently. I would ask their name. They would tell me. I would follow their limits. They would cower to me. I would have fucked them by now. They would receive the collar. The procedure has been the same with each new client coming in, formulaic. A working system.

I haven't fucked Ana—novel.

Preserve me, I want to more than I want my next breath.

This white collar I've given her as well, novel.

My request was a pain in the ass to the staff, surely, but they produced it with skeptical looks. Original intent of the color system was long ago abandoned, and they were buried away in the warehouse. We stopped using white collars years ago on the island.

All the better, because this woman herself was an abnormality. An anomaly. We were doing this my way now, up to and including employing unorthodox collars to unorthodox submissives that didn't get their collars the way any other has. And I would make no room for rebellion or questioning if it didn't come in the form of a blue eyed brunette named Anastasia Steele, the only one in the world with every right to question me.

White collars signaled an unbroken client. A virgin.

No on in the world can convince me that the salacious mystery that is Anastasia Steele comes even close to the word "virgin", but the choice of collar has a singular significance.

Having her here is disturbingly similar to when I woke up 8 years ago on the beach, a troubling fact that doesn't escape me. To know who you are but not; to question it. To own someone, but not.

That is Ana.

While she is here, I have to start over. Revisit, rebuild. She is unbroken to me, even if only for now.

There's a fire in her eyes, a dance of indignation and something else I can't quite label. The corner of my mouth quirks up at her expression.

"Speak freely, pet."

She shifts her feet, tilts her head. Her lips are thin as she asks, "I'm your property now, sir?"

For a black moment her question is terrifying, marked. As if the sum of her time with me, my sins against her, have lead to the sentencing now. Any hint of amusement I held simpers out, and my words are grave with every bit of sincerity I feel.

"Anastasia… You've been my property from the moment I first saw you."

* * *

…

* * *

"Are you familiar with stoplights, pet?"

"I've some inkling of them, yes. Am I being gifted one of those as well?"

"No."

"What a relief. I don't think I have any more room in my closet."

She smirks at my wry head shake, settling into the confines of cuffs binding her wrists behind her back. She'll remain on the floor, I've decided. At my heel. Beneath me and always at my side. On her knees and bare beyond the leather collar around her neck.

Unconsciously I stroke the leather, grounding myself and reveling in the undeserved possession I feel over Ana. I've transcended these stirrings she baits out of me now, the notions of what I feel for her less and less alien the longer I look down at her. The more I recognize how right it feels to have her there, in particular.

She belongs here. With me.

I've accepted this like I've accepted air into my lungs. Earth solid beneath my feet. It's an undeniable truth and pointless to resist. And she herself does not struggle at my heel, doesn't show any hesitance or trepidation. She would barely seem unwilling, if not for the unshakable pride I sense within her. She accepts that I will humble her this way, and cedes to my desire with only a scrape of resentment in the form of heavy sarcasm and knavish ribbing.

No part of me wants to erase this smart mouth of hers. She's quick and clever and it's easy to understand why I'm so drawn to her when she speaks openly.

"So you understand the color system?"

"Red means stop."

"And green means go." I won't take her fun away from her. Besides the one instance, Ana has no idea the levels I'm ready to descend with her. I don't doubt that she can handle it. Not one bit. Which is why I want to make sure we've set up all the safety parameters ahead of time. "Yellow?"

"Slow for check in," she answers promptly.

"Yes. And blue?"

Her cheek raises slightly with the whisper of a smile. "Don't stop."

"That's right, pet. Don't stop."

Compared to any other woman, any other sub, Anastasia is downright spoiled. Contextually, regardless of how easily composed she is, she is bratty. Prideful. Any submissive of mine would have had this beaten out of them at the first sign, but Ana has retained this pride. Stoked it even, as if her punishment was simply time out. I'm not a fool to repeat the same actions and expect different results. Her tolerance is without question.

I plan to break her every other way.

"Sir, will you tell me what you meant earlier? When you said you were going to break me?"

_Again, mind reader._

Her safe-out is in place and she understands the gist of my intent for her today; I'm ready.

She's ready.

I crouch down in front of her, bundling her hair up into my hands and laying it down her back. My hand flashes out, slapping her across her right cheek. It is more of a shock than a violence and has its intended affect. Her eyes are wide as she turns back to me, shoulders stiff.

"Try again," I instruct softly.

She stares at me a moment, the cogs in her brain starting to turn. She licks her lips before she opens her mouth to answer. "Will you tell me… please?" she ventures in a low voice.

Hm. Her eyes flick down to my mouth as she watches me, waits for confirmation, notes the growing smirk I can't suppress.

She knows she's wrong. I can tell the very instance she recognizes it.

Her left cheek gets the slap this time, more force, slighter contact for more shock. She doesn't turn back immediately this time. She licks across her full lips again, slowly, and her shoulders relax with a sigh. When she meets my eyes, hers are slightly darker, as if she's veiled the luminescence, the natural brightness in them. Her cheeks are a beautiful flush, the print of my hand blooming across the smooth skin.

"Again, pet."

She gets it right this time. Understands the game we're going to be playing for a while.

"How are you going to break me, Christian?" she asks, and I smile at her. I place a chaste kiss to her forehead as I stand to my full height above her, watching her from between my legs.

"Just like this," I murmur, stroking the top of her head.

Anastasia is a prideful brat. She knows very well that she is beautiful and easily able to captivate me. She uses this charm against me often, and if she thinks I haven't noticed, she is mistaken and will soon find that out. It is a vanity perhaps even she isn't aware of, not consciously. But she knows that she holds a certain sway, a certain influence over me. I don't want to extinguish this influence. I relish it, this foreign pull she holds; but I have a responsibility to her, to myself; and if I want to appease Grace and Carrick, I need to address it swiftly. With a tolerance as high as hers coupled with such subtle defiance, I realize exactly what Ana needs.

The best way to break pride?

Cruel debasement.

Humiliation.

"I've told you more than once that you are to call me Christian, pet. You will call me sir only when we are around others. And you will show gratitude for this reminder. Kiss my foot."

Genuine rage ignites her already reddened cheeks. Flares in her ever darkening eyes. Moments like these, the blackness inside of me wells deep and fervently, yawning and reaching for whatever it is about Anastasia that tempts me so.

But, unfathomably, she blinks and it seems like all trace of the previous ferocity has been wiped. Hands still bound behind her back, she folds herself forward and presses her lips to the top of my foot, and her expression is chillingly blank when she looks up to me again.

"Thank you, Christian," she says, no inflection in her voice, no hint of a single emotion.

I swallow past the lust that threatens to choke me in her subtle challenge. The hunger that has my blood surging as coarsely as my adrenaline. "You are welcome. Come with me."

I don't clarify for Ana to follow on her knees, but, smart girl, she does so without my needing to.

She watches me silently as I rifle through the cabinets in the bathroom, setting my next task on the sink, out of her view. When I've got everything, I bid her to stand and lift her by the waist onto the sink. I let my gaze linger on her plentiful curves sat like this. She has perfect posture and her breaths are shallow and even. Her nipples are a beautiful dusky pink as they tighten under my observation. The soft breadth of her hips in this position is a distraction but eventually I land on the nest of curls at her apex.

"Spread your legs."

She doesn't hesitate at the quiet directive. She opens them wide, none at all shy, and my heart leaps at this intimate peek of her. I stare at her, at the gorgeous cleft between her legs, readjusting so my erection doesn't bend into itself. When our eyes reconnect I see my lust reflected in her gaze.

Turning away from the trance she threatens me with I grab the little box on the sink and tear it from its confines. When I turn back to present the items, Ana is not amused.

"Do you know what this is?" I ask, barely withholding a chuckling.

Her dark eyes look to my hands and back to me again. "I have an idea, Christian."

"Answer me then. What is this?"

Her throat works on an irritated swallow. "Wax strips, Christian."

"Yes, pet… Wax strips." Her lips purse before she takes the edge of her lower lip between her teeth. I'm beginning to gleam the nonverbal cues. "You may speak freely."

"Will you be doing this, Christian, or will I?"

"I will, of course."

She hates this. She probably hates me, and I _shouldn't_ be so delighted by this. In truth, I have more than a few things to do outside of the villa. Ana only received one of the presents I've prepared for her. Based on her reaction to the first… I _really_ shouldn't be as delighted as I am. It's becoming unseemly.

"Do I still have permission to speak freely?"

I pause from rubbing the strips between my hands to look at her.

"Yes."

"Is there a particular reason you chose the strips over the melting wax, Christian?"

I smile to myself as I apply the strip to her left labium. "Yes, pet. Yes, there is."

She stiffens with the first rip, her breasts jutting forward as her spine straightens. I imagine if she were allowed the freedom she would kick me square in the face, and the timing is wrong to do so but I find myself laughing at the thought, and by the exhale of breath that rushes out of her, she is seething.

Embarrassed and debased.

Just the way I want her.

I get the next strip warmed between my palms, applying it to the right of her as I had the left. Another rip, and this time she expects the pain. But that doesn't eliminate the sting of humiliation that must be running through her.

Admittedly, I like the curls on her. I stroke the remainder of the downy patch lightly before getting another strip ready. They are as womanly as the woman they conceal, but this act isn't for my benefit. I have a point to prove this week, to Grace, to Carrick.

Myself, even.

I have no intention of letting her go early, not home and not to the other dominants on the island. She's every bit of mine as my namesake is. I plan to make that abundantly clear to anyone and everyone so there are no misgivings. I loathe gathering with the other residents. It is a harsh reminder that socializing isn't for me, and would not surprise me if it never has been. Necessary evil, however, as they need to see Ana. Need to see and understand what's mine.

The insinuations made by Carrick and Grace the night before... speaking of taking Ana away from me as if I weren't standing beside them. The interaction made me view them in another light. I saw all of our previous conversations as equal, perhaps familial, but it was nothing short of a business transaction in the back room yesterday, and they weren't hearing a word of my actual worries.

Fuck them, then.

I don't know them well enough individually or care enough about their side of things if they don't concern themselves with mine. 8 years or no, Ana eclipses them in my mind. I'm grateful, but too many questions are surfacing as of late, and I don't plan on changing my household any further to their benefit. I barely heed their ridiculous system of updating the submissive rosters in the first place. They know I'm good at what I do, so they don't bother me for it. Simply accept my testimonial after I've finished my time with my live-ins.

So Ana being their first question mark is offensive to say the least.

I may have given them a reason to doubt me, confiding in them my internal debacle. I know now that was a mistake, because I realize they only care about the bureaucratic benchmarks they hold the island to. I can only hope what I have planned for tomorrow derails whatever damage I've done, mends the potential rift I've created if it means they will leave me to torture myself with Ana in peace. It feels ridiculous that I have to put on this charade (regardless how much I will personally enjoy it), but if it must be done...

Fuck them.

I'm not necessarily being gentle with Ana, because I know that's not what she's looking for. Much to her chagrin, I'm thorough in her waxing, living in my thoughts but enjoying every sharp rip wringing in the silent air, and the torture is delicious as I tell her to lean back on her elbows and lift her knees for me to reach the hidden pucker of her bottom. There, I am just a bit more delicate, nd nearly ravenous from my obscene view of her.

In the end, she is glaring and puffy and flushed— a vision if I've ever seen one.

I've established protocol. I've waxed her down. I can leave now. Step out of the villa. Head down to the town and finish setting up Ana's surprises. I can definitely leave…

I wet the cloth with warm water and wash the area down for her, and if possible her skin seems to swell further. The second I drop the cloth I pull her up by the band of her collar and smother her in a commanding kiss. Her lips yield on contact. She melts beneath me, submitting to my mouth against hers, and I'm not sure if I'm hearing her heart beat or mine.

I scoot her forward by the hips, imposing myself between her long, toned legs. My tongue licks across her lips, slides across her own tongue as she presses against me.

I so badly want to put my tongue in other places of Ana's responsive body, but the plans… I've got plans…

And Ana is still very much a brat who should not yet be rewarded.

I draw away from her with her lip between my teeth, nipping the wet flesh before I release her entirely.

What does this puzzling woman give to me that I can't get from anyone else? Why do I see her, smell her, no matter the distance I force between us? What is it in the way that she looks at me that is so different from anyone else?

She blinks at me lazily when I'm a decent space away, hopping down from the counter when I order her to as I attempt to recollect myself. I guide her to her bedroom, mentally chastising myself in the walk there. Convincing myself to unbind her now and let her go about her day while I handle my business. Tell her that I'll be back later and that I want her to have the day to herself.

Instead…

"Center of the room, pet."

Damn her. Damn me.

Damn it.

She steps past me, regarding me with a curious glance.

No fear.

She has never feared me.

I order her to stop with her back to me.

I approach her slowly, my lust for her near overwhelming now. Her hands still bound behind her, her every line is accentuated by this position, by the light gliding off and over her. My fingertips trail the dip of her spine all the way down, tracing the shapely curve of her bottom and wrapping around, and I grip her hips, enfolding her into me and burying my nose in her hair.

She smells like packed snow on a black night, and the scent drives me mad because I haven't seen snow in at least 8 years. I bathe her in luxurious soaps and rub her down with scented oils and beyond all of that, the smell of _her_ refuses to be washed out.

Similarly, I know regardless how much I whip her, hit her, and now humiliate her… she will not bend to me. Not fully, collar or no collar. I wonder if I will ever fully get the privilege.

Or if I even want that.

I slide my hands up her smooth stomach, up and over her breasts and chest, and I encircle her leather-bound throat. Naturally, instinctively, she stiffens. It lasts but the barest moment before she eases back into the cool control she's mastered.

I marvel at her, at the trust she's placed in me, my chest rising heavy and falling shallow with anticipation. She knows what's coming and she hasn't stopped me. Doesn't seem like she wants to. I skim the skin at her windpipe, a gentle caress before applying pressure, just the pointer and middle finger, watching Ana's profile carefully.

"Check in," I command softly.

"Green, Christian," she replies.

Her eyes droop with the contact. If possible she relaxes ever further beneath me. I allow myself the intrinsic reaction of shifting closer to Ana, curving around her, shielding her from the rest of the world and letting it fall away from us as she submits to me. The desire I feel for her, the humming roast of energy teeming within me, I don't let it distract me. To take me away from such an intense and erotic moment with this woman and her absolute trust in me.

"You're so beautiful," I whisper against the shell of her ear, and the words were only intended as thoughts but they belong to her now.

It's increasingly impossible to ignore how unnerved she renders me. The discomfort in how _comfortable_ I am with Anastasia. Has it really only been two weeks? Two weeks with her is all it has taken to wrap me around her finger. I'm helpless to her, defenseless and pregnable to her indifferent charm and the thought rattles me in a way I've never experienced before.

She's not going anywhere. I know that. She isn't the type to quit and has far too much fight to let even my erratic behavior chase her off.

Knowing this doesn't displace the irrational fear of losing her. I don't know nearly enough about her, haven't heard my name traipse past her lips enough. I have more time than I rightfully deserve with her before she is required to go home, but knowing she will leave means it's not near enough time to satisfy me. Again, just as it reared its head in the pub, I feel it…

Hot, blind possession.

It strikes wildly. Indiscriminately. Flaying at my chest and lungs and stealing my breath as I breathe in Ana, as she breathes through my grip.

I don't dare let my thoughts connect with my body, with hers. No matter the amount of panic swelling and surging around my heart, Anastasia is always priority. Always above. Anything I do to her, everything I do to her, she will always be safe. I skim my nose along her cheek, press a chaste kiss to her temple as my fingers flex, apply more pressure to her neck, giving her a time to adjust before graduating to a gentle squeeze.

A moan so sensual it has my jaw clenching pours out of her. She's slipping now, falling into that dark, beautiful bliss that would bring her into mindless sensation. I guide her there, wrapping my fingers fully, firmly, around her and compressing. Her breaths whistle out of her nostrils, caressing my knuckles. Those deeply blue eyes mast as the glossy blacks of her pupils swell in dilation. Her pulse both leaping and lulled. I've never been more aroused, more intrigued.

"Color, Ana," I demand, my eyes riveted to her stunning profile, cataloguing her every shudder and shake.

She answers immediately, quietly, "Blue," and my own breath is shaky as I kiss along her cheek, her jaw, tightening my grip degree by cautious degree.

Ana's moan is a deep, primal noise that sets my blood ablaze. I know what she's feeling, how far into the play she's fallen. Her heartbeat vibrates through my very bones, drums a rhythm to my own pulse racing straight to my cock as I hover over her as completely as the laws of matter allow.

"I'm right here, pet," I assure her. She's been teetering this edge for a long while, and my prior reservations be damned, I want her to come. I slip my fingers over her breast for one rough squeeze before dropping to the rigid bud of her clitoris, etching tight, fast circles into her. With every syllable my fingers tighten around her just that much more. "I'll always be right here for you. You are amazing. So fucking beautiful. Give into me, pet. Now."

She shivers in my grasp then, and I hiss a quiet moan as her eyes roll back with her silent orgasm. It is unquestionably the sexiest thing I've ever seen in my life, and my longing for her rises to a sharp slope.

I groan into her hair, "Fuck," easing my hand around her throat as she pants and gasps through the climax. To give into me so totally, so responsively that it brought her to orgasm… I have to release her, in fear of what her high tolerance and my unflagging lust can drive me to.

I pull her immobile, misted body close as I close my mouth over hers, conquering her with my kiss. Laying every possible wordless claim on her that I can muster. Branding her with my tongue as I stroke along hers and through her sweet mouth.

Carrick's blunt remarks still wring in my mind, rattle me in a way that pulls muscles within me I've never been sure of.

When her scheduled time with me is up this feeling will pass.

I'll think of her fondly as I train my new set of submissives and won't think twice about it afterward.

Slip right back into the composure I've crafted after all these years, the control I need.

Maybe, if I bullshit myself enough, I can make all of these things feel tangible.

_I'm not giving her up._

I take her jaw, touching her so gently it could be my imagination. And I kiss her. Fiercely. Bruising. Horrified at my revelation, terrified of her and what she forces me to face.

And then I soften my mouth on her, a tender tugging at her lips because I want her, forever. I want to preserve her. Absorb her into myself and hold her to where she can never escape me. Can't be taken from me.

I pull away to watch her, struck by the warmth of her gaze on me. Ana rests her weight on me, and I wrestle the keys to her cuffs out of my pocket and release her. She raises her fingertips to my face, the skin just curving my cheek, and on a sigh she breathes, "Red."

I release her instantly after making sure she can stand on her own, backing away and putting the room's area between us. As careful as I could have been with Ana, there is no perfectly safe way to engage in breath play. Any number of physiological responses can occur while tampering with a windpipe.

Ana looks relatively unscathed, but I know I'm dealing with a master masquerader.

She's had more than a moment to herself before I approach again, and when she doesn't deny my touch I'm lifting her into my arms and laying her down on her bed, swiping her hair away from her face.

"Thank you, sir."

I smile at her, despite the worry pounding in my chest. Not worrying she's alright—worrying about the intense tumult of feelings washing through me. When I sit beside her she turns over to me, the brightness of her eyes returned though hooded.

"Was that okay for you, Anastasia?" I ask as I lean over her.

"It was. And then some."

"Then you enjoy being choked?"

She pauses. "I trust you," and she's observant so she might see how soundly her words have made my heart stop. "I don't like suffocation."

"I recall. Its your hard limit."

"Dulls the senses," she grins weakly. "But I trust you so… choking is fine."

I eclipse her fully now, kissing her chastely. Reverently. "I won't betray your trust," I vow solemnly against her lips. I wouldn't dare—not with the depth of my need for her.

"Would you like to lie with me?" she asks quietly.

She would never know how much I was looking to do just that, and I find myself smiling again as I relax on my side, mirroring her, ignoring the good common sense that dictates I should quit while I'm ahead. I don't think I've ever felt more naked with a woman, more intimate, despite being fully clothed. My flesh understands her flesh and my soul wants her soul.

"You call me many different names," she muses aloud, and the statement is quiet, not quite a question; almost accusatory.

"I do. Are you looking for insight?"

"At all times."

"I call you 'pet' when you're being playful. Or when we're in play. It gives me possession of you."

A warmth drips through me saying the words to her, admitting them, cluing her in on my obsession. "'Mouse' is when you are quiet or asking questions. Your eyes are wide and almost innocent but very sharp, like you're seeing an entire room with one look."

Something close to amusement flashes across her expression, but it doesn't stay long enough to point out. I finish my last point with, "And…well, you're Anastasia when I'm connecting with you on a… normal wavelength."

She responds in a long, soft hum, not seeming to need any clarity on my explanations, and the room falls into a blissful silence. In the distance, I can hear the waves licking the sands on the beach, the faraway cries of gulls playing. I need to leave if I have even a prayer of setting up Ana's surprise in time but she makes it impossible when she's being so utterly human and feminine and inviting.

"How old are you, sir?" she asks suddenly.

"Not a clue." I shrug the shoulder not planted beneath me. She's being a defiant little creature again with the 'sir', but she's used the safe-out. I wouldn't dream of pressing the issue after something as monumental as choking her. "I'd rather not think too much on it, to be honest. Why? Is my age showing?"

She rolls her eyes, the hint of a smirk on her serene face, then her eyes are boring into mine. "No. I don't see an ounce of gray on you."

My lip twitches. "Are you being punny, Anastasia?"

The weight of her gaze doesn't lessen. "A bit," she says softly. "So how do you celebrate your birthday?"

"I don't. I don't know when my birthday is," I reply, chuckling as she groans in mock horror. "Am I missing something special?"

"I would have pegged you as a man that got most of his sick kicks out on his birthday."

"Well, there will be no pegging where I'm involved. On my nonexistent birthday or any day otherwise."

Her grin is slow, sly and seductive. "Well. Maybe tomorrow will be your birthday."

My eyebrow arches. She can't possibly have a clue of what I have planned but she's so intuitive, how can I really be so sure? "Yeah? I don't keep track of the date anymore so…"

"Let's go down to the pub and find out," she offers casually.

"Hm…" I raise up, crawling over Ana and rolling her onto her back, balancing on my forearms above her. "I will be going down. You will be staying. But I will find out the date and get back to you. Deal?"

She watches me with those bright, hooded eyes as I run the tip of my finger over her collar, across her collar bone. The imprints of my grip on her lovely skin are beginning to blossom, darken, and I know she feels every hard inch of me against her bare leg. "Deal. You're hiding something, sir."

Unwittingly, I cough out a laugh, stunned and none at all taken aback by her astuteness. "Pet, I'm going to have to start punishing you for ruining my surprises."

"I don't think I'm ruining anything, sir. I don't know what you're hiding; I just know something is being hidden." The curve of her mouth resembles the Cheshire cat, her teeth clean and pretty as they gleam at me. It is the most dangerous smile I've ever seen.

"Keep knowing too much and it'll come back to bite you. 'It' being me."

"I'm not threatened by a good time."

I shake my head at her, pitifully smitten as I lower to capture her in an unhurried kiss. I have to drag myself away or I'll lose the motivation to leave this bed.

But then…

When I take even a quarter-second to remember exactly what I'm leaving for, my purpose is renewed. Heat courses through me, scalp to toes. I shift myself off of the bed and away from my temptress, flagrantly taking all of her in with the needed distance.

"It's a good thing tomorrow is my 1st birthday then, pet. I can't wait for the rest of my gifts."

"Glad to be your first," she says, turning onto her side with a wink in my direction. "Sir, can I ask you something?"

"Of course, Anastasia."

"Do you mind if I go for a run around the beach while you're gone?"

Shit. I don't mind; moreso I worry. She's grown and perfectly capable but above any other that I have had in my care, I don't want anything to happen to her. No, it is unlikely that she will drown while I am away… Or break her ankle. Or get lost in the forestry. Or be dragged off by mole-people.

"I suppose," I answer hesitantly, begrudgingly. It's unfair to keep her locked away like this. She was clearly used to being active. The thought of making her unhappy in anyway is unacceptable, and narrowly trumps the irrational need to preserve her from unlikely downfalls. I add a concession, for my own peace of mind. "You've got an hour out there before I go looking for you."

"That's more than I'll need. Thank you, Christian."

I give her a tight smile, ignoring the weighty pang in my chest at her casual use of my name in gratitude. Not _sir—_ Christian.

"Can I ask you something else?" she inquires as I turn for the door. I pause as I lean in the doorway. Her face is suddenly cool again, almost somber.

"Of course," I repeat. "What is it?"

She watches me with wide, cautious eyes. Speaking slowly. "Christian... Where do the women that you dominate go when their time is up?"

"Home, of course."

Her sharp eyebrow crooks. "They go home? You're sure about that?"

"Of course, pet. Where else would they go?"

She doesn't answer me. Just continues to lock me into her stare. Her head is just slightly tilted, her hair falling over her shoulder as she studies me. "Where else would they go?" she echoes after a while, and my mouth suddenly feels barren.

My head is shaking, words unable to come out legibly. She's implying something, I know that, but I can't wrap my head around it and can't make her question make sense. Frustration hits me, stubborn and insistent. I swallow, but I don't ask her to elaborate. I need to get down to the pub with all of this time already thrown out the window.

"You've got one hour out there, pet," I call out behind me. "Or else I'm coming for you."

Ana's words, her eyes, haunt me as soon as I leave her vicinity.


	13. Chapter 13

**Anastasia**

I sprint full speed ahead when Christian leaves the villa.

I creep off of Christian's balcony, debugger in hand. Not much in the way of stylish, I've managed to fashion together a belt wrapped around cut off jean shorts by means of utility, equipped with my small satchel. Neutral colors; beiges and creams and light browns for attire. I leave Christian's collar, as degrading as it was when I was donned with it, on the nightstand.

I watch Christian amble down the path and out of immediate sight, looking almost dazed. Confused.

Its both a good and bad sign.

Good in that he seems rocked by my question to him. " _What happens to the women after they leave you?_ " Bad because it makes him one giant piece of the puzzle that has no place to fit. I shadow him from my place in the foliage, dancing over the roots reaching up and out for me as I crouch low. My eyes are constantly scanning every trunk, every stump, every branch for any hint of wiring. The debugger is decent and small but there is such a vast amount of forestry to explore I know I will need much longer than an hour to sift through it all.

When Christian reaches the thin strait that puts him no more than a few minutes away from town, he stops. My feet halt with him. For a long while he stands there. Staring at the ground. There is no denying that my seed has been planted. In a moment of remarkable vulnerability, I'd sprung the trap for Christian. I'd only expected one of two reactions from him at that point.

The confusion, or hostility.

This whole ploy was becoming dangerously personal. I'd let him put his hands around my throat, this stranger. The only other people in the world who'd gotten the opportunity to do so were either Syndicate trainers or dead. No in between. Some emotion swelled inside of me as Christian made his purpose clear in my bedroom, some understanding passing between us as he wrapped his fingers around my windpipe. I didn't stop him, and he had so clearly searched for signs that I would.

Every hard limit the Syndicate chose for me was strategic, served a defensive purpose. I would hardly have been the one with any actual say in the matter—my position was soldier and reconnaissance. Suffocation was one of the first limits they'd come up with. It meant lack of oxygen to the brain. Dulled senses. Askew ability to make sound judgement.

Light choking is not suffocation, but if I'm looking for a way to argue it, will win.

I'd wanted him to do it. Disgustingly, I trusted Grey enough to do it responsibly. And he had. For just this silent moment alone amongst the trees, I allow myself to scowl at Christian's immobile back, admonishing the weakness abasing years of preparation for this mission.

I could argue that I was still looking for that blackness in Grey's soul. The one that rears its head predictably but irregularly. That side of him craves the violence, the control.

It was a lie, and it doesn't take a scientist in the room to make that out.

Irritation flaring up within me, I push forward again, quicker but even more gingerly so as not to draw attention to myself from the man intent on twisting up all of my plans. Debugger in hand, I keep my arm extended straight out above me, hopeful to catch anything on my journey. The trees are old and tall, thick hunks of tropical wood that stretch wide and dense in proximity to one another. Even if Christian were to catch up to me, it was doubtful he would see me through the expanse, hear my footsteps and believe it were anything more than eco-ambiance.

I don't move so cautiously for Christian's considerance. There is a high chance that machinery is hidden amongst the green. Why wouldn't it be? If I had an island that kidnapped and made people disappear…

I feel it then, vibration shooting down my arm.

I stop instantly, my foot suspended in the air, and drop to prone in the same breath, my eyes scanning quickly.

It's there, as predicted.

A tiny camera with a wide lens strung to the root of a mangrove, to the right of my position. It was facing the pathway leading into the town, thankfully, so I amn't in view but…. How many more will I find? And why a camera facing the walkway? Anyone entering or leaving the strip would be hard pressed not to encounter one of the guards, and more importantly only Christian and whatever submissive he has at the time would be passing this direction.

The town is already in view; I can see the tops of the small ring of buildings from just beyond the crest of a decline. I proceed in a crouch, in less of a hurry now as I ponder the security placement. Christian has yet to catch up to me even now, and I hope beyond all physical means that he will not turn back in search of me around his villa.

He's too good at that, derailing me. Complicating my already difficult tasks. Irritating and frustrating me in ways I thought improbable of any one man. And still a warmth nips at me that I can't shake. A warmth that mists at the edges of ice that support my composure and poise and control.

The ghost sensation that I'm about to flip his world upside down is prominent, irrefutable. No matter how this goes, everything will change for him. If he were a lying bastard that willingly had a hand in all of this mess, then more's the pity. He would have justice to answer to. At this juncture of my investigation, it is nigh on impossible to say Christian is _leading_ this ring. Not if Carrick or Grace sit as untouchable as they do, spoke to him as they did. I likely wouldn't have to kill Christian myself, despite the many times it's passed my mind. The Syndicate would dole out whatever punishment they see fit.

However, if…

My mouth twists as I break through the trees, creeping along the back of buildings. I count 5 guards, all keeping watch over the sum of 14 buildings. Some likely other villas, deduced by their residential window frames and heavy doors. The Hub, the pub that Christian brought me to last night, sits directly in the center.

I'm not here for any of that.

It takes a few more minutes hidden in the long shadows of day before I reach my destination: the warehouse.

His little collar surprise was hardly a surprise when I listened to him not only request it, but battle the staff to actually get his hands on one. There was nothing particularly telling in his telephone conversation with them, but a warehouse would hold any myriad of information.

This coveted warehouse is… quaint, more akin to a boathouse. A prehistoric artifact perched right on the water. It almost doesn't belong in such a pristine place with its corroded metal and filthy glass panes. There are two men guarding the entrance, which elicits an unruffled eyebrow raise from me. It goes without saying that anything being guarded warrants the manpower to do so. I have another forty-three minutes to return to Christian's villa, so about twenty of that could be scouting out this warehouse.

The guards alone stood no chance. It was almost unfair, really.

One is now passed out behind a massive mangrove way off the beaten path, opposite of the route I'd taken, missing his heavy ring of keys. The other is catching Z's all the way around the edge of the warehouse, his feet licked by the creeping surf.

I pack the Dilaudid and needle back into its safety case, back into the satchel, and I run through the loop of keys into the padlocked door. It doesn't take too many attempts for the lock to shudder and release its catch, and I ease through the decaying brown wood before shutting it behind me.

The roof is caved in at the back of the ancient structure, and the lighting inside is subtle and low. If I hadn't kept the commotion low enough outside, it certainly would have alerted this lone man within and patrolling the area. I make the pointed decision of leaving him alone, so long as he doesn't make a move to leave the building. Doubtless he would go looking for his cronies if they weren't where he expected them. I don't need any unwanted attention drawn to me in here, were he to radio in.

Unlabeled pallets stack high on top of each other, packing in the considerable space and seeming fairly maze-like. I navigate easily enough, weaving through and feeling along small trunks, the storage bins. The crates are littered with weathered manifestos—receipts.

Standard affairs such as tables, chairs, beddings—nothing incriminating, no receiving names, and more importantly, no dates. Thereon, however, is a company name: Trevelyan Holdings.

Now why does that ring a bell?

By now Kavanagh would have that MAC ID from the backroom in the pub tapped and sourced, and the code I injected into Christian's beast of a machine would pop it right open by morning tomorrow. I have to mentally shake away the anxiety lacing my thoughts. Why the hell should I care what Kavanagh finds on that thing? It shouldn't matter to me; this is just a job, another check to collect.

But it does matter. I distinctly _do_ care, much to my shame.

I would rather believe that Grey is more akin to an adult-child than a greedy sadist that likes to sell human beings. He stands a chance if he is naïve. The Syndicate can be unforgiving but what can they say if Grey has no actual knowledge of his crimes?

The hesitance remains because I know the answer to that.

Sifting through pounds and pounds of these papers, these nondescript sheets of paper that I am sure are steeped in hidden meanings I don't have a key for, I relent. Staring at them won't give me the answers, and this moment I only want to snoop—finding real evidence is a bonus, if it comes to that.

Eventually I make a circuit around the warehouse, around the deep docking area where one modest trawler boat and a dinghy bob along the waves. The dinghy stands out, the little rubber vessel that should be deflated and decidedly _not_ on the waves. A quick scan shows it is empty, save for two—three life vests. The trawler has heavy tinted windows, and I'm not willing to get too close.

Around the open back of the boathouse looks like more palleted supplies. Some canned goods. Actual furniture. Bottles of water and general drink. I nose through every label, every break and crease in the plastic. Some are partly opened for what I'm sure are impromptu requests made by the inhabitants. Everything almost passes as sinless when a few segregated stacks catch my eye.

Unassuming bottles. Ones similar to or identical to varieties I've seen in Christian's fridge. They sit in neat rows, but with the plastic peeled back and more than just a few missing from the bundle. My eyes land on black marker against duct tape.

_Gray Dolly?_

This label isn't on the others that look like it, and there aren't labels on any other stack I've seen, in general. I pick up each bottle of the dozen, skimming over each label and confirming the likeness. All uniform, all labeled with the same generic stickers, but the contents seem darker than the bottles of the other crate.

It will leave suspicion but I have to check.

I push the first few pallets to the side, careful that their weight does not shift to freefalling, pulling out the one bottle and setting it down to readjust the load. Taking one of the bottles from the floor as well, I shimmy the guard's key under both caps and ease them off, and although deceptively faint, I know the darker of the two is off. Just beneath the sugar and fruit I can smell it, the hinting bite of chemical.

Now why? And what?

These are without a doubt the same bottles that sit in Christian's fridge. He drank at least one every afternoon, post-workout. Grunts always kept the fridge stocked and full of not just my requests, but all of Christian's as well.

These juices are one such reoccurring stock.

I need a chemist, which means I need Kavanagh. Something is in this _Gray Dolly_ and unfortunately biochemistry is not in my skillset. I can't leave two opened and untouched bottles just sitting out, so I pour the contents of each bottle out between the open cracks in the floorboards, the shimmer of water undisturbed by the twin streams. I maintain my crouch, setting them betwixt the pallets, and skulk around the railing when a hand claps down on my shoulder.

"What the fuck do you think you're doing here?"

My every muscle relaxes.

I turn slowly to face the burly guard; a familiar switch hit within me. He has at least 8 inches on me, the top of my head level with his pectoral. His chest is massive and deep, swollen with muscle and strength barely contained under the cotton of his V-neck, the smattering of gold-brown hairs peeking at me. His jaw is wide, square, clean and spotless; his cheeks high and cut sharply. His eyes, a shadowy cobalt, burn through me in his glower as they meet mine. A handsome man, well-kept and taken care of. He is not the guard I saw patrolling alone when I'd come in; his face had been forgettable. This one, I make a point to remember what he looks like.

As I do with every soul that adds to my body count.

I'm not fully convinced that souls exist. If I believe in them. With all the evil I've put myself in the center of, been wrapped up in, it is an obscure concept to see validity in. Or perhaps only a select few of us received the vessel required for the soul.

He may be one such vessel, may have been worthy of possessing a soul. This man now down on his knees, looking up at me with dark blue eyes that have softened in their silent plea, that beg for mercy as if in intercession, as if he has chosen me as the priest for his final confession.

I don't have the power to absolve him. To absolve myself. But I can take his sins and add them to my own, carry them as I do the others' that suffer his same fate. I've made a mistake, a trivial one, and this man will now suffer the consequence.

I feel the burden shift to me, a tangible presence as life leaves those blue eyes, as the light in them freezes and shudders out; rolling to the back of his head as his body slumps in place. His head lolls back lifelessly. As massive a man that he is—was—it's a mild struggle to guide him down to the ground quietly. Even more so as I battle back the acid stinging my throat and churning in my bowels, but I do it. The whir of the giant blades in the corner of the warehouse disguise the man's descent into the waters below. Maybe the other guard hears it, maybe he doesn't. I slip out of the newly desecrated building in either case, shutting the door firmly behind me.

I redeposit the keyring on the guard's body hidden amongst the trees, allowing myself the cursory check of his pulse, brushing away the ineffable relief of feeling his heart beating evenly, if a bit slow. I take off back to my assigned villa, stopping only once to heave out the last of whatever paltry meal I consumed that morning. I make it back before Christian.

* * *

**...**

* * *

Christian is not in when I return.

I beeline for the kitchen, wrenching the fridge open, pulling out the now all too familiar bottle that sits by the dozen within Christian's fridge. I pop the top off by the counter corner and whiff the rim.

Same faint trace of chemical, perhaps made more subtle by the chill. In a habit long since dead and buried, I chew the inside of my cheek, locked in consternation as I consider the gravity of my findings. Nothing that would specifically damn the island. But a poignant discovery that Christian is being drugged… Most certainly, and without a shred of doubt.

Suddenly, Christian's loss of memory isn't so baseless and random. I'm not a chemist—I can't say which substances are mixed into it and I don't know what effects it has on consumption. Belatedly, I wonder if I've unknowingly ingested any. If there were any instances that Christian poured this juice or any other drugged one out for me; that I've accepted without noticing.

Or if he was or wasn't aware.

My instinct, my hardened gut feeling, is that no, Christian has no idea what they're pumping him with, and he wouldn't have had reason to suspect that I shouldn't drink this as well. But he doesn't act to expectation. Doesn't think the way normal men—normal people—think.

Condensation beads down the side of the juice, rolls onto my hand. I want to find out what the drink does to him. Evidence via withdrawal. Something tells me despite not finding anything specifically crippling to the operation running here, this is the pivotal puzzle piece.

But I'll leave things as they are.

I don't know what effect the drinks have on him. I would draw a massive amount of suspicion pouring it all down the drain with no explanation. Showing my hand much too early.

Christian shouldn't be far behind me. A look at the clock says there are but a few minutes until he will return. More than anything else I want to call Kavanagh. Not for her trifling input; but because she could send word to the lab-labor the Syndicate has on call, and they could run this through for an evaluation.

Those few minutes he should have needed to return, however, come and go. And then double in time. Then triple. Half an hour goes by and I finish a shower. One I am grateful to have. To let pass an unspeakable session of shaking I can claim was caused by a scalding stream of water, instead of the exigency of snuffing out human life.

After a full hour of Christian not returning I damn him and decide to call Kavanagh.

The telephone's wire is long enough. I carry the antiquated machine to the corner of the couch where I can watch the front door. The big windows make it easy to see Christian's inevitable approach, or anyone else. The two guards I knocked out wouldn't need very long before they were up again, very confused but awake. Alive.

It was that third guard—the one that they wouldn't find, until they did...

Then hell would break loose. I've made an error, not realizing he'd been there. An error I could never have seen myself making before, and the price is hefty. His death, moreover his disappearance on an island with little to no connection to the outside world, is a bell too loud to ignore.

Kavanagh answers before the second ring can finish its trilling.

"Fuck, Steele. What took you so long to make contact? Where have you been?"

I don't let her tone or informality ruffle me, but the involuntary arch of my eyebrow is inevitable. "Stranded on a BDSM island; where else?"

"We have a problem."

All humor dies at the introduction of her words. "Report."

"Your MAC ID was a bait," she says, and my eyes fall shut as I grit my teeth. Things just continue to rapidly improve. "We got the tap. We got every bit of information that we could have ever needed for these assholes. But they got us back."

"Explain."

"I extracted all of the archives hidden in the PC's memory, and suffice to say that we aren't dealing with a mom-and-pop kidnap scheme anymore. We know where you are and we've got a lead now, and one hell of a lead it is." There is a mess of wind in the background of the call. Her breath is even enough but I can hear the slight exhale that signals she's moving quickly. "I don't have the time to say much else—they have our southern office coordinate."

Fuck.

"Please tell me—"

"Everything has been packed up and moved, and your part in the mission is done for now. You're being pulled out, Steele. We have EVAC en-route to your location."

My eyes fly to the door immediately, to the full window beside it. Still no sign of Christian. And no hellfire lighting up the shores. "How long?"

"ETA 17 hours."

Double fuck.

"So soon?" I ask casually, stamping out a disquieting tension in my thoughts.

"Better safe than sorry. We know that they reversed the tap on us, Steele. At most, they know what we've pulled out of their network. They've got nothing else from the access point besides a general location of the southern office."

"But you've cut them off, I hope?" The blooming apprehension seeps now. If she can hear it, she doesn't mention it.

"Of course," she scoffs, offended. "Again, we manage without your omniscient eye."

"Ensure there is enough space for two then, Kavanagh."

"What? No. Why? This wasn't a retrieval mission, Steele. Your job was to get in and get information. You do not have approval to save civilians."

"Then get me approval," I snap. I know I will get it, regardless of how she feels. The only person that needed to approve it would do so without ever needing a reason. It would be done because I asked it, and no other reason at all.

A moment passes with just the wind speaking between us before Kavanagh swears in her mother tongue. She knows battling this would be moot as well. "I need names."

"One name. Christian Grey."

" _What?"_

"He's being drugged. I have reason to believe the drugs to have caused some extent of memory loss in him. I want him tested and tried."

Another moment. Then I hear the furious clicking of keyboard switches one after another. "They want him alive," she says, no inflection as she reads the directives of the Directors. One Director in particular would have been all it takes.

"That was the plan."

"You have not been granted approval for retrieval for any further civilian life, and you will be held solely responsible for the safety and safeguarding of first name: Christian; surname: Grey. Do you understand, Steele?"

"I do."

"You will release Christian Grey to unnamed custody at a location to later be determined from command, where he will testify his role in the unnamed mission you collected him from. He will undergo blood and urine testing and be held for investigation as to the full extent of damage that his actions have caused. Do you understand and agree to these contractual stipulations?"

"Yes."

"Done." It's clear when she's finished the contract. I can almost hear the sag of her shoulders as she sighs again. "You're shaking up more than initially anticipated, Steele, I'll give you that."

"I've got more to further improve your day."

"Oh, what now?" she groans.

"I had to eliminate one of theirs today."

"Christ in heav—Who?"

"A guard. There was no avoiding it. The method that I had to take out his cohorts with will raise more than a little suspicion, given the circumstances."

"Clean kill?"

"Do you really need to ask?"

"No. So they know their archives are floating around, and they've misplaced a man in action. There will be some alarms raised, doubtless. That would be a problem if I were talking to anyone but you, Steele."

"Good thing its me." I wish it were only hubris that rendered the statement accurate. A lesser agent would be expected to fold under the pressure. Recon, kidnappings, rescue missions, and murder… Fun month.

"That's one way to look at it. Okay, we have _what_ we need, and the only _who_ we need alive is Grey. Keep him in the dark; he will be arrested and detained on sight. Bring evidence or this won't end too pretty for him. Sorry to ruin your bondage party," she jokes dryly. "Was the sex good enough?"

"I wouldn't know," I deadpan, unamused. Easy to make funnies when a pile of shit wasn't dropped in her lap.

"Better get to it while you've got the chance. If the bastard had anything to do with what we've fished, his longevity is far from guaranteed."

"Not my problem." And truly it shouldn't be. Nor should I care.

Yet it is. And I do, for some twisted, preposterous reason. Nothing should register in my mind besides the mission and my own safety, in that order, but my list has a dubiously sudden addition that should not belong there.

"I expected as much. In the decade I've known you, there isn't a man alive you've shown compassion for."

I smile darkly, and laugh without intent or humor. If only she knew. Even if I admit to Kavanagh that I _am_ being ridiculous and sentimental, she would dismiss the notion. As if it were possible for one of the Syndicate's flawless machines to be flawed. "Is that your way of calling me heartless?"

"It's my way of saying I know you'll only do what's necessary. If anyone gets in your way or threatens Grey's safety, you have the kill order."

Mildly confused, I ask, "Grace and Carrick?" I asked for background on them in the last phone call. If Grey is a VIP then it makes sense his overseers will be as well.

"Trevelyan," Kavanagh reveals, and I nod to myself in understanding. Grace and/or Carrick Trevelyan. Sure, I had their names before but it's much nicer to have full names for devils. Much more information to be sourced.

"They're resident king and queen," I inform her offhandedly. "A lot to be gained by bringing them into custody, too."

"I've been digging relentlessly since I found them, and I've got some interesting tidbits for you when you get back. Believe, you, me—you have the kill order. They're cogs in a machine, and this particular machine has nastiness and size to it. Now isn't the best time to discuss, but suffice to say let the animals to the slaughter. We beach in 17 hours to clean the island up. Do whatever you see fit."

Kavanagh's mindless extension of herself to the committee never fails to give me pause, as if she's no more than a mouthpiece with no sense of self. Always "we" with her. Silently I question her decision. Even if they are cogs, they are a large piece of the blueprint, and if Christian has no useful information to him then they are made all the more integral.

But my doubt is kept just that, silent. She takes my noncommunication as acceptance.

"That's all for now—"

"Wait." Too late to hold my tongue, I roll my eyes at myself. "I have an injection running on Grey's computer. It likely won't finish in time."

As predicted, Kavanagh disregards the minor non-issue. "Whatever you get, you get. Get Grey. Get out. Signing off."

…

There is so little to react to now. So few decisions left in my hands, really. "Do whatever you see fit," is actually code for, "Sit on your hands and kill whoever stops you from bringing the information home."

While this should have given me a degree of ease, a modicum of space to clear my head, it's done the opposite.

I know too much. I don't know enough.

They'll collect Christian and myself.

They'll kill every other soul on the island.

The Syndicate is a brilliant organization, ruthless and near autonomous. Decisions made and acted upon are always for the common good, the better good. The overarching wellbeing of humanity is the key principle.

And that leaves out the lives trodden on to get there, innocent and not so innocent.

Every submissive on this island will perish, and I don't have an exact number of how many people that will be. Asking Kavanagh would have been foolish, because she would see no reason that I would need to know that. It had no bearing on the objective, especially not after knowing that the Syndicate has gleamed all that they need to know to move on. Even with the sway I have as far as Directors go, saving a dozen civilians with no explanation—who don't believe they're in imminent danger and could never be told that that was the case—is a chore not made for an organization like ours.

Precision and efficiency.

The Syndicate wipes a slate to write the story on it themselves. Good, bad; heroes, villains—the Syndicate plays the field of gray area for it all.

The submissives, regardless of the lives they led before coming here, are innocent, in the grand scheme. Doubtful that they've murdered, raped, or deprived another person of human life. They came here for a few kicks, not an early, unmarked grave.

And none of that should be my problem. None of it necessitates room on my conscience.

Just as the Syndicate, I am meant to be ruthless. Autonomous. Most days I can be.

Today, however, as I wait three hours beyond the time Christian dictated his return, I am baking a cake.

As far out of the purview of my operative duties as it is...

I don't think the desire to bake _anything_ has ever once crossed my mind. But Christian is getting a cake. Because if I keep thinking myself into a corner I will only further skew my objectives. To stop and think about the thousands of missing people already out of reach means I will be tempted to do more than the Syndicate needs. My ice, damnably, is cracking under the isolation of living with a chaotic sadist who doesn't know his own birthday.

I'm losing the ability to rationale which balance of sleuth and submissive to employ, because the lines keep blurring. One minute I'm against them all, the next I want to give them a fighting chance not to be gunned down, while keeping my dominant in the dark with the intention of reaming him sideways. All in the name of justice in the form of my profession.

The lives of an unascertained amount of people will be extinguished in less than twenty-four hours. I am either dooming them to death by gunfire by not acting, or the fate of the waves for doing so.

And so Christian is _hopefully_ getting a cake.

I can say that this is a part of the grander plan to slowly win Christian over, to endear him to my side to make further information slip out of him even more easily. I could justify sharing this intimate moment with a man who in all likelihood had a million crimes and sins to answer for, if it makes bringing him into custody go more smoothly. And I could _try_ to tell myself I wasn't doing this because I wanted to. Because I wanted him to have this.

"Fucking sap," I curse under my breath, sifting flour out of the funnel and into a metal mesh, I watch the dust fly everywhere with exception of the bowl it is intended for. I blessedly have almost all of the time in the world to thoroughly destroy his kitchen until he returns. At least until the bombs are to fall.

Baking a fucking cake... I can never share this with anyone. Ever. If Kavanagh had even an inkling of what I was doing she would drop me from this assignment in a heartbeat, and likely have me evaluated by as many thero's she could find under Syndicate jurisdiction. Or have me gunned down like everyone else on the island. She'd think I finally broke.

Another mirthless smile finds me in that she wouldn't be fully wrong for believing so...

This is wildly inappropriate. Beyond the realm of excessive, even. Throwing in what I am sure is the completely incorrect measurement of baking powder—not teaspoons, but I believe I've done _tablespoons_ —it isn't news to me that I'm clouding the plot. I have orders. I have an objective with a rapidly approaching conclusion. This is where all roaming thoughts should end.

I'm becoming a bit _too_ invested, I've decided. Begrudgingly. I'm not so far gone that I can start scribbling Grey's name in my nonexistent diary, but... he is stirring up inexplicable sentiments that have no place in my mind, my direction.

I shudder and release a noise of disgust.

Perhaps this is my near unrecognizable conscience offering a little gift to him. A ' _sorry I'm kidnapping you so you can be arrested and tried'_ cake.

A kindness, I hope, he will appreciate one day, as it is in every way infuriating and humiliating to attempt.

* * *

…

* * *

**Christian**

I'm in love with her.

I think.

I'm unsure I've actually loved anything in my life. No family, no friends. No favorite movies or TV shows or favorite foods. Perhaps sex. I love sex, but am not one to overindulge in it— my love for sex is modest.

But Ana.

I don't want anything as much as I want Anastasia. To live, breathe, eat, sleep or even fuck. And the mere thought of fucking Ana gives me heart palpitations.

Someone so tantalizing and multidimensional. So many different facets and reflections and secrets.

My very secretive, cunning mouse.

Knowing that she, in all of this time spent with me, has had a hidden agenda to basically dismantle everything my home, my life, stands for...

Truly, I think I am more in love with her.

She's always had that something about her. That quality that makes her indignant and confident, like no matter how much or in what way I dominate her, she is always in _control_. I feel that now. Feel that power that she refuses to cede. I know in any profound and fleet moment she can blow the very sand from beneath my feet and submerge me and everyone inhabiting my island two oceans deep.

It was her, certainly, on the security footage Grace screened with me. To me. Grace had watched my face and my reaction from the second that black screen flickered to life. And she'd been there, Anastasia, skulking through brush like a jungle panther. Only for the briefest of seconds. Perhaps less. One couldn't be sure until Grace slowed the tape down and froze the frame. And then there was no denying it, no debate.

Not for me, anyway.

My loyalty didn't belong to Grace in that instance. Any instance perhaps. A rocking yet not at all surprising ferocity to protect Ana stole me, and I'd turned back to Grace with my best poker face. I played dumb. Remarkably dumb. And confused.

I didn't have to stretch for the confusion, however.

I hadn't been aware of the cameras. Not to the extent that Grace had shown me before landing on Ana's debut. There were cameras at the pub, of course, because that was entertainment. Quite often when dusk broke the perversions did as well, and the other doms loved to put on a show; shows that would be put on a screen projector during another show where the cycle would go on and on.

But the brief glimpse I saw… They were everywhere. Some places I'd never seen before. Outside my villa. Off my beachwalk. The looping bevy of paths strung about the island; and so many more disturbing locations. Such as deeply embedded in a beach fern and pointing directly up and at Ana's bedroom.

I tried, I really did, to take a page from Ana's book, and smother any fury, any rage, that bled into my veins, my muscles, at the thought of anyone watching Ana without her permission. Seeing her the way they were bound to have seen her when she was meant to have preserved privacy. Exposed. Vulnerable.

I'd done a piss poor job because Grace tried to paint over their deceitful invasion. _For their safety_ , she said. _For_ her _safety. We don't tell any Dominant; to safeguard their privacy, all the more._

_And look now,_ she'd continued, either fooled by the thin veil masking my delirium or ignoring it, _one of our people, our family, has been killed. Murdered. And she is the only person we have out of place._

It was a shame. Surely.

But that man, whoever the fuck he was, didn't hold a candle to Ana's life.

I tried to convince Grace, to sway her. Ana couldn't have been an ounce over 150 pounds, which was generous when her dossier said 140. How could she disable two beefy muscles and kill a third? She didn't have an answer for that. Further confusion mounted in that there were cameras watching the tiniest flecks of sand on the coast, but not set up at the warehouse to catch this alleged murder and assault when it occurred?

Not to mention that small brunettes are a dime a dozen, especially here.

On all sides, nothing was making sense. Nothing adding up.

Carrick wasn't there, which oddly relieved me. Grace gave room for my doubt and there were moments that I could see her stance sway. Had he been there… It was best not to consider it. When Grace gleamed that I had nothing to offer, that my skepticism would be of no help, she let the screen return to black and told me to keep my eye on Ana.

And that was all.

The only assurance I had was that of my own. I would not let them have Ana. I can disregard that this may have been the biggest mistake I've ever made in my life.

Because I love her, whoever she is. Or is not.

Or, even if this confounding myriad of pain, pleasure and excitement does not sum to love… then it is enough that I obsess for her so thoroughly, desire her so powerfully and blindly that I will allow no other soul to take her from me. She could take another thousand lives on this island and I would protect her, for as long as she would allow me.

I return home in a daze of sorts. Staring off into nothing. Moving on autopilot, allowing my instincts to carry me back to Ana. I climb the steps. Grasp the door handle and give it a gentle twist. I smell her as soon as I take my next breath. Her and something else…

"Happy Birthday."

I have to pause. Look around for a moment and check to make sure there is no one behind me before turning back to her, to Ana, perplexed.

"What's this?" I ask, glaring into the tray in her hands, not bothering to clear the blockade of my tightened throat.

"A cake," she states plainly, matter-of-factly. "You said you don't have a birthday. Or rather, you don't know when your birthday is. So… I baked you this cake. For… your birthday."

In her hands is a dish unlike anything I've seen before. Horribly misshapen, beaten and left to bake, there is a deformed mound of pastry heavily—unevenly—coated in thick blue frosting, with red and yellow sprinkles scattered about in what _almost_ appears to be a smiley face. I didn't even know there'd been frosting in the house.

"I tried to write your name with the candied parts," she says, a pucker between her dark brows as she gives the monstrosity a scornful frown, "but I hadn't anticipated how much I'd need to do so... I ran out."

I open my mouth to say something, and close it again the second her inquisitive eyes raise to mine. I do clear my throat before rasping, "I thought we agreed tomorrow was my birthday."

One corner of her mouth twitches before curling to a small and rueful grin. "I thought it best to celebrate tonight. No time like the present."

I cannot even fathom how she managed to get it into the …state it is in. There are symmetrical prods all throughout the cake, as if she stabbed it repeatedly and indiscriminately with a fork, maybe to check if it cooked fully? The girl's eyes are wide and round, staring straight at me as she tries to ascertain how I feel about her gift. For a moment, I can't do much besides look back at her, at it, then at her again. After a few moments she has lost the enthusiasm she had when I opened the door. She appears crestfallen, if one could do so indifferently; her shoulders slacken and the cake goes with them by a few inches.

"You don't like it?" she mutters, sadder than I could ever imagine her.

When it finally registers in my head that this is real, that she is genuine in her attempts and has done this for me, I reach out for her; place my hand at the crown of her head. I weave my fingers through the soft brown strands easily, and as the emotion in me swells, my fingers curl; I'm bringing her closer to me. I can no longer see her expression, her head is bent as she tries to finagle the cake from between us to somewhere safer, where it won't be smooshed.

"I like it," I whisper into the smooth skin of her forehead.

"What do you like about it?" I can't help but smile at her teasing. She must know it resembles a child's plasticine recreation of a cake more than an actual one. How did she get it to slope so…?

"I like that you made it for me," I chuckle.

"Will you taste it?"

"I'll taste anything you'd like me to taste, pet."

She pulls away just enough to tilt her head up, and I lower to capture her kiss gingerly when all I want is to encompass to her. When I release her I take the tray of trials from her hands and carry it to the kitchen islands. Somehow I've done myself a disservice of not taking all of Ana in, her naked curves peeking out from beneath my much too large white apron and the broad band of my collar around her throat. And the thick dusting of what I assume is flour in her hair. Blue colored sugar on her cheek. Rainbow sprinkles littered across the countertops and what used to be the stately, spotless white floors.

I purse my lips in a concentrated effort not to laugh at the ridiculousness of the setting. At Ana's sharply arched brow and her cocked hip. At the chance that Ana is a cold-blooded killer that has baked me a birthday cake.

I fail, and I laugh so genuinely that I double over with my hands on my knees.

Ana feigns offence and her pout deepens, but the shadow of amusement just bends the corner of her mouth. She traipses out of my direct line of sight as I attempt to sober, and she has a very large, very sharp knife in her hands on the opposite side of the island and the cake.

My mirth dances away too quickly; too jarringly. A man has been found dead tonight and the only person in the world I care about sits dangerously close to the position of culprit. The words come blurting out of me before I can stop them, before I can tactfully rephrase.

"Was it you, Anastasia?" I ask, and as her expression freezes I know I don't need to clarify but I do anyway. "Did you kill him? That guard?"

I don't know exactly what I expected. Maybe for her to look shocked. To demand to know who was killed or deny any involvement emphatically.

But I do not expect her calm, "Yes," in such a smooth, unruffled tone.

In a reaction that isn't my own, my gaze flickers down to that big knife in her small hands before I catch myself, and Ana is smiling at me in a way that I've never seen before. Neither of us speaks through the silence, stretched and tense on my part. Mentally, I'm trying to take stock of myself, of my situation.

I'm not afraid of her, for some reason. I see what she is capable of with men bigger than I, stronger than I. Her reaction to my accusation should activate something in me, I feel. Some fight or flight instinct or the willpower to sprint out of the villa and alert Grace and Carrick to who she is.

But I'm so nonplussed by any of those things, and _that_ is what frightens me the most.

"Now what?" Ana inquires softly, dragging me out of my conundrum. Her posture is perfection as always, her face relaxed and open and…

"They can't have you."

Her eyebrows draw together at my statement, her head tilting slightly. "Who?"

"Anyone," I vow. She watches me, displeased.

"Who knows?"

"Grace does. There was a taping of you walking through a stretch of the beach right before they found the guard."

She smiles slightly, almost teasingly again. "That doesn't make me guilty."

"No, it doesn't." I keep my eyes locked to her, hoping to reach somewhere within her despite our distance and hold tightly. To convey… whatever it is she compels me so to. "You aren't guilty to her, yet. It's conjecture at this point."

"But I've just confessed to you, Christian."

"You have," I nod solemnly.

"So…" her head tilts a touch more, that small smile still in place, and she repeats, "Now what?"

And I repeat myself. "They. Can't. Have. You."

A long moment passes, and Ana is the first to drop her gaze. Her eyes slide shut and she rolls her shoulders backwards, and when she opens them again, that coolness I am too familiar with revisits me. She places the knife down beside the lump cake.

"On a tape, huh?" she turns around completely then, presenting me her smooth, arched back in the apron as she leans against the island. "I have lost my touch."

"Carrick wasn't there," I vocalize, then clear my throat. I don't know when I locked up the way I have but it's a conscientious effort to drop the tension in my shoulders and take a deep breath. Maybe I do fear her… just a little. "I don't know if Grace has spoken with him yet, but I'm sure that she will."

"What did you do when they showed you the tape, Christian?"

"I lied." I've been watching her closely so I notice how slightly she stiffens at this. As much as I enjoy the view of her that I have, I need to see her face, so I skirt around the islands to stand in front of her. She doesn't need to look at me, I'm sure, to be aware of my every movement. Her long lashes conceal her downcast eyes, but I feel moderately better being able to gauge her this way. "Ana—"

"I don't understand you, Grey." I balk at her use of my surname, temporarily stunned. "You are the farthest from normal in a human being that I have ever met. It's really beginning to annoy me, you know."

A moment passes before I recover from her frank revelation, and I chuckle. "You're probably not the only one with that sentiment." I'm whole again as Ana gazes up at me serenely. It is likely unwise, but I step closer to her. Her eyes drop to my hands as I raise them toward her but I don't shrink away. I take her face between my palms and skim my thumb along her cheek, the curve of her upper lip. Her pulse beats quickly, steadily, beneath the pad of my littlest finger, and it's the only real reaction I get from her so I revel in it.

"Why did you lie?" she asks, allowing my touch but not moving, aside from the slight rise of her chest with her even breaths.

I frown down at her pointedly. "I've already told you."

"You did, yes, but it doesn't make sense. A man is dead. I admitted to you that I killed him. And you're looking down at me… like this. Make it make sense, Christian."

"Can't," I chuckle again, softly, against her softer lips, as if my insanity is a private joke that only we two understand. "All I know is that if they believe you did it…" I shake my head, shake the blackness creeping around my thoughts. "One body will not be where it ends on this island."

What I've said has shocked her. Her eyes widen as they bounce between my own, her pulse speeds beneath my finger. "You don't know me," she whispers incredulously.

"Nor you me. But I know I can't let anything happen to you."

The edges of her irises seem to ignite they shine at me so brightly. An emotion not quite strong enough to be anger hardens her features. "They will all die tomorrow, Christian," she remarks stonily, and my thumb stops where it is. "Every one of them. Every guard. Every dom. Every sub. Grace. And Carrick. All life will be wiped on this island, save yours. So before you continue on in your fantastical romance, please consider the obstacles stacked against you."

Her words, though sharp and punishing, don't land their intended affect. I understand them. I know that she means every syllable. I won't be attaching to the right section of her admittance but I ask regardless.

"Why will I live?"

"I need you alive," she answers simply, one slightly raised brow.

"Oh. That's nice of you."

"Not quite my decision, but thank you."

I know when to quit while I'm ahead so I don't continue down the line of questioning this has opened up. It feels like so much needs to be discussed and I don't know where to begin. Ana takes the lead for me.

"Where are Grace and Carrick now?"

"Grace is likely still at the pub. I was setting up your… gifts when she pulled me aside." Inappropriately given the circumstances, I am compelled to ask, "Will we still have time for your present tomorrow?"

She grimaces at first, but it slowly morphs to a smile as she shakes her head at me between my palms. "Depending on how early it is scheduled, maybe." I return her smile before giving into my desires, and I kiss her fully, longingly, indulging in her taste and her scent and her. Everything will change. Our entire dynamic, or the façade that it was, will change; but I hope this need for her will not. That her acceptance of my overbearing and needy nature will not waver. I want her too much and amn't prepared to find out what becomes of me without her.

My hands skate down her neck, over her collar—my collar—as I draw her further into me. I deepen our kiss as my tongue meets hers, and continue the descent to grip her full bottom in one hand and rest at the well of her back with the other. If given another second I'd have her sat up on the counter with her legs parted and my face buried in her freshly shaven pussy, but she lays her hand on my chest as she withdraws. She _is_ a mind reader, I've decided, because she smirks at me coolly.

"You're lucky," I murmur, "that I have as many questions as I do that make it difficult to continue this."

Ana's eyebrow crooks. Her eyes scan my face lazily and she smiles enigmatically, her voice dropping to a caress of a purr. "Lucky is one way to look at it, sure. You, however, are not as lucky. Because you're stuck with me, and we do have a _lot_ to discuss, Mr. Grey."

Before I can vehemently protest how incorrect she is, she extricates herself from my hold, and I allow her. I wipe the corner of her mouth of the mess I've made of her, and Ana slides her hand across the counter, wrapping her thin fingers around the handle of the knife again, holding it out to me.

"But first, cake."


End file.
